Kingslayer
by DiaryofOphelia
Summary: Then, in a sharp glimpse, he saw it. The winters; the raging storm; a time where the tale of a babe pulled from her mother's womb during the year of the false spring spread like fire. To be revered and renowned, yearned after by those who feared her; by those who adored her. She was addressed by many names but he only knew her by one. Winter had come and she was beautiful.
1. The Fierce

Season 8 does not exist, welcome to my outlet.

I've had this story in the works for a while now, but since I've been preoccupied with 'A Lion in a World of Lambs', I haven't gotten around to editing this story. So, after the season finale, I will take it upon myself to give Jaime 'I Deserved Better' Lannister the ending he actually deserved.

Fanfiction is my canon.

*Speaking of ALiaWoL It will be updated Friday for sure! I'm decompressing, Tyrion discovering his siblings was a stake through the heart and I'm in mourning*

* * *

"though she be but little, she is fierce!"

— w.s

* * *

Winter is Coming.

The history of House Stark began with the upraise of Winterfell, a seven-hundred-foot wall of solid ice, and a black castle at the foot of what kept them and the monsters apart. The North never knew a true summer. No such warmth was at a Northerner's disposal, all that was familiar was perilous amounts of ice, mud, and snow. Frigid nights and gentle mornings; a winter's storm was generous.

_Winter is Coming_

Northerners were a different breed, many from the Southern lands would whisper. Northerners took their pride in the cold being their home. No pretty palaces encrusted in gold or proper rituals unlike what they practice in the South. Northerners survive; pray and preach the old gods and their heart trees with pride; decedents of the First Men, the stories told. And the lives of masses to prove just that.

_Winter has Come_

They say the North never forgets.

The water that flows listens, once it sets and is solid through the harshest of winters, it is the ice that never forgets. For once it melts, the evocations fluctuate, and one again reminds of all the misdeed and sin.

For all that has been done had never left in the first place.

Laisa was the first to come up with her own interpretation of the Stark words and their common proverb. She came to her father one day, little Robb attached to her leg as she burst into her parent's chambers, at the break of dawn, hoping into their bed and awaking the Lord and Lady with a jolt.

"Father, father!" she excitedly called, trampling Eddard beneath her sharp little knees. Robb curiously sought out his mother's swollen belly, hearing her mumbling in her sleep. He crawled forth, wedging himself between the two to snuggle up to his mother's side.

Eddard awoke with a pressure on his chest, and his one child staring him in the face, a silly grin and still in her nightclothes. "What is it, sweet girl."

"I figured it out!" Laisa announced, speaking in hushed whispers as she fought with Robb for what little space remained between him and her father. "Why the North never forgets."

She proceeded to elucidate her reasonings, her childlike understanding, and Eddard listened as well as he was allowed. His responses were short as she continued to ramble on, unexpectedly dozing off only to be awakened by small jolts and a pouting girl.

"Father.." Laisa scowled, "You're not listening."

Eddard cleared his throat, turning over just a hair more to face his daughter, and smile. "Yes, I am sweet girl. And that belief is sensible…the origin of that proverb is but a mystery."

"Perhaps, I'm on the path to reason."

"That you may be, child." Eddard agreed, gently petting down her wild raven curls, "That you may be.."

She was smiling—her freckled, rosy cheeks and sprouting teeth did not diminish its innocent beauty. Eddard glanced over to a sleeping Catelyn and Robb, priding himself in his family and all the little ones to come. He reached a large hand over to caress the swell, feeling the babe kick once, twice and three times. He saw, even still in his mother's womb, he was a fighter. And Laisa watched with intent, reaching her small hand to touch her belly.

"How does mother do it." Laisa quietly, asked, "Carry a babe."

"She's a strong woman, your mother. She carried you and Robb, and now she carries another."

Laisa reared back when she felt the jab against her tiny hand, cowering in her father's chest. "Why did it do that!"

He laughed. "It's the babe, sweet girl, he does that when he knows another is near. To let you know he is a fighter."

"How do you know it's a he?"

"I've…got a feeling."

She giggled, "A feeling?"

"You know, when you were still in your mother's belly, I thought you'd be a boy as well."

Laisa scrunched up her nose. "Why?"

"When you were born, it was in the dead of Winter, during one of the fiercest of storms. Maester Luwin conceded that the brewing of strong winds and hundreds of feet of snow fall meant a boy was to be brought to us. Others believed it was ominous for a child to be born in such harsh conditions. And few believed you would be delivered in a week's time." Eddard brushed her hair down once more, completely enthralled by her large, gray eyes pinned to his face and her attention, still. "But that day, your mother had waddled down the halls, screaming, 'The babe is coming, the babe is coming'. The Maester, the nurses, the entire kingdom erupted into a panic. The storm worsened, people had passed in amass, babes starved…myself, your mother, the maester were worried you would meet the same fate as our people."

Winter had come, and she was encaptivating.

Laisa had never been told of the perils of Winter. Though a child, she would have to succumb to the North eventually, and Eddard was not shy in telling her—all and true.

"I was not allowed in the birthing chambers. I heard your mother screaming, begging to the Gods for hours and she was afraid."

Eddard watched the first flecks of sunlight vanquish the darkness of his chambers.

"She was?" Laisa whispered.

He nod, "Yes, and for two nights, she fought for your life. To my dismay, I could not comfort her in her most agonizing time…but in an hour's time, you were born. Red faced and wailing, your mother must've complained about the fire roaring too high and too hot, which is why you became so red and loud."

"But once you quieted down, cleaned up, and wrapped in swaddles, I held you for the first time…I had named you Rickard, after your grandfather, until I was informed you were not a boy as I—as we all imagined."

Laisa was smiling again, giggling sweetly.

"Your mother renamed you Laisa, and as the whispers of your birth had spread. Many were threatened by your presence…for they believed the Gods had bestowed a witch upon them. One that manipulated winter and caused death and hardship."

Eddard noticed the worry creasing in her features, and her eyes had fallen. "Did I…did my birth really kill people.."

"No, sweet girl, it was a matter not of yours or your mothers' control. Northerners and their ominous beliefs struck fear into the hearts of the defenseless." Eddard hadn't realized the devastation Laisa must have felt. A girl of seven feeling guilt over lost lives, for a synchrony that overcame Winterfell. He watched the tears that brimmed her eyes fall, dripping onto her tiny and shaking fists.

Laisa murmured, "Do they not like me, father.."

"Absolutely not." Eddard defended, pulling her into his arms to console her, "Do you want to know something?"

She nodded against his shoulder.

"Once the storm cleared, and the people became familiar with Lady Laisa…do you know what they called you?"

Laisa shook her head.

Eddard held her up, softly gazing into those beautiful eyes of hers; a smile became of him. "They called you Laisa the Fierce. Others coined the Winter Rose, for only something so beautiful must be winter born and raised."

He gently wiped her tears, kissing her forehead and combing back the mess of black curls once more. Laisa, however, sniveled and murmured, "But…father I'm not fierce."

"Aye, but you are."

Laisa threw her arms around her father, squeezing him tightly, his thick arms curling around her little frame.

"Laisa the Fierce.." she whispered.

A little girl never stayed _little _for long.

She gave her father one last squeeze before climbing out of bed, dismissing herself from his chambers and sneaking back to her own. Her Septa, Maude, must have been scouring the castle grounds looking for little Laisa before the crack of dawn. For perfection rose early and a Lady should greet the morn. Laisa was not one to accept propriety but what could it hurt. The mind of a child ran from manners and tradition, for Laisa had one thing in mind and it was something her Septa would disapprove of, greatly.

Perhaps, her father too.

Laisa threw off her nightgown, exchanging it for a pale grey gown that was adorned in a darker blue stitched pattern and lined with fur at the wrists and collar. She brushed out her hair and yanked it back into a tight plait to avoid her Septa's torment that she defined as brushing and braiding.

Avoiding her Septa still, Laisa gallantly strolled through the keep, rounding the corridors and skipping down the stone steps to reach the outer courtyard. Laisa hid behind stables, peering over a lone saddle as she watched the men draw and nock arrows into haybales; others fought with shields and longswords; slaying wooden dummies, strengthening their swordsmanship.

Laisa payed more attention to their feet than she did their blades, counting the steps backwards and forth. Then, as their swords collided, the hums of steel vibrated through the air, once, twice, and three times before it was ripped from his opponents hands. It was a unlike any fear when staring down the blade of the enemy, aware of a like coming to the end and there was nothing to be done. In those moments, Laisa overheard stories of men who experienced just that, while hearing the voices of the Seven. Almost as if they were calling their faithful home...unless the Gods be good.

She excitedly watched as another practice ensued, unaware of the soldier who stood behind her and overlooked the courtyard almost as eagerly as she.

"Your Septa has torn apart castle grounds in search for you, m'lady."

She snort, "Let the old woman look. I have more pressing matters."

"Is that right."

Laisa turned, tilting her chin upward. She recognized his face, one of her father's men—barely of seventeen and stood about the height of the sacred weirwood tree.

Jory knelt to level with Laisa's line of sight, glancing between the archers and the gleam of excitement in her eyes.

"Teach me."

"Teach you?"

Laisa faced him, nodding. "The bows."

Jory snorted, "You want to learn to wield a bow and quill? You're the size of the damn thing, if not smaller."

She smacked his shoulder. "I want to learn. Father will not sanction it, but I must learn."

"And why must you learn, m'lady."

Laisa raised a hand to smack him again but he held her tiny fist, knowing something so small and feeble could not damage. She, however, raised her other hand and hit him, harder.

Jory thought it was smart to hold both her wrists.

"Other than your lady commanding you," she sneered, "What good is there in being titled _The Fierce_ if I have no ferocity."

"Laisa the Fierce." Jory repeated, "Named such after the storm you were birthed and rightfully titled after. I can see why, now."

Laisa struggled to free herself after that comment and her struggle made the boy smile.

"Okay, lady Laisa, I will teach you. One condition."

Her brows knit and her eyes narrowed. "What condition."

"You stop hitting me."

Easier said than done, Laisa believed Jory needed a strike or two to rattle what stones he had rolling around in that head of his. Though, she was not one to lay a hand on man nor woman—her Septa would have her head for it—sometimes a good strike was necessary. An informal way to tap into the undiscovered senses, her Uncle Benjen would say.

"Deal."

"We'll begin and nightfall, my little lady."

* * *

And so it did.

Seven years, wielding a long bow that was twice her height and three times her weight. Jory took much amusement in watching this babe sway from front to back in attempt to balance herself. Laisa cursed at him for laughing at her, her chubby cheeks flared up crimson and she threatened to nock her arrow into his chest if he dared laugh at her again.

"You could try," he taunted.

Laisa growled, regaining her stance and adjusting her hands as he instructed. Jory knelt beside her, correcting little mistakes. "Relax your bow arm, lift your drawing arm up a tad higher…there you go."

"Now, try to pull your arm back."

Laisa did just that, struggling with its draw weight and groaning, trying to keep herself still. Her little body was twitching with tension before she released, the loud _thwang _of the bowstring gave her good scare. "Did I hit anything?"

Jory laughed, "No, silly girl. There was no quill."

"Can I try with the arrow."

Jory could never get over Stark's and their straightforwardness, though, Laisa sounded more demanding than any Stark he knew. "If you're careful."

"You're here. I'm sure everything will be fine."

He ruffled her hair some, pulling one quill from the barrel behind them and handing it to her. "Nock it."

Laisa took it, fumbling with its placement against the bowstring, and drew. Jory assisted her, pulling the string taut and aiming the bow just a bit higher. "Keep your eyes open, the one-eye trick doesn't do you good if you plan to hit a moving target."

"Now, take a breath," Jory instructed, "When all the air leaves your lungs, let it fly."

Laisa did as told, feeling the quill brush her cheek as it cut through the bitter air, though it landed nowhere near the mockup target, it landed somewhere. And she was ecstatic.

"Jory! Jory did you see! I hit it!"

"You did, m'lady. Hush, now, before the whole castle awakens."

Laisa flushed, covering her mouth soundly but that did not stifle her smile. "I want to try again."

She sprinted to the barrel, snatching another quill to stand where Jory knelt, assuming her stance and drawing it.

"There you go, a little farther."

Laisa's arms were shaking but she held still until her lungs were clear of air and loosed the arrow. The landing wasn't perfect, but it was an inch or two closer to the outermost circle of the target, causing Laisa to erupt in a fit of joy.

"Few more years of practice, you'll be the best damned archer Winterfell had ever seen." Jory thought it best to stroke her confidence, for he knew if her father or any man worth his salt found the heiress to Winterfell took up archery lessons, they would laugh and unkindly remind her of what her rightful place in life is. Whether she was the Lord's daughter or not.

"Shall we try again?"

"Try what again." A bellowing came from the perch above, what little firelight illuminated the presence of Lord Stark.

Jory hit the muddied grounds with a loud smack. "Lord Stark."

"Young lady, what are you doing and why are you out of bed."

Laisa scowled, still brandishing a respectful tone, "I was practicing, father. I forced Jory to teach me to use a bow. I wanted to."

Eddard hadn't moved but a muscle, simply snapped his command. "To bed, we'll discuss this in the morning. And _you._"

Jory was still kneeling, unable to shake the feeling that he had done something unforgivable. To his left, Laisa marched forth, resting the bow against the stables and dashed straight to her chambers.

"We'll continue this in the morn."

Laisa heard her father's last words before turning into the keep, tumbling into her bed chambers. At seven name days, she may have already killed a man if he had not taken the liberty to relieve himself of his own life for forcing his hand, defying his Lord. As any child would be, Laisa was angry. She heard her father talk of nothing but Robb and Jon; at six name days they would have to learn the basics of swordsmanship. The younger they are taught, the better they become.

She ripped her dress, stuffing it beneath her bed and flung on her nightgown before sitting in the middle of her room with a piece of wood, stabbing it into the floor. Hearing her father's heavy stride coming down the stone corridor and pausing before her bedchambers, Laisa prepared herself for an argument. At seven name days old, not only would she have a man killed but a Lord disrespected.

Namely, the _Fierce _was in her wheelhouse.

"Laisa—"

"It was not Jory's fault, I made him do it. I wanted to learn like the other boys, to learn like Robb will learn at my age." she defended, "I do not want to be a lady. I want to be on the front line, with you and my brothers to come. Perhaps my future husband, as well."

Eddard softly grinned at her demands. She truly earned her title and utilized it well. "Sweet girl, you need not worry of using a weapon nor learning to use one. You will marry a great lord, one who might not appreciate his wife in the line of battle, and one who will rule with a fair hand and your sons will be the soldiers. It is how young ladies play their part."

"Then no lord husband." she simply put it, "If he cannot fight with me, then he will fight against me."

Eddard sighed, "Laisa—"

"How can I be Laisa the Fierce if I am not fierce."

She faced her father, what was anger and spite changed into unmoving, expressionless. Perhaps it was sadness and Eddard could not see it. Laisa took his silence to means, tucking the wooden piece beneath her pillow after she kissed her father goodnight, tucking herself into bed, bundled under the thick furs and quilts. Eddard inched to her bedside, petting down her curls once more before kissing her forehead and blowing out the candles above the hearth.

How could he answer with honesty if the truth pained him more than she could ever know? A daughter demanding to learn a man's weapon, conning a soldier to teach her, and seeking answers for a title that did not make much sense. His sweet girl made his head spin, but it was to be expected. Laisa must've inherited that vigor from her late aunt, for she was similar if not identical, growing up wanting to be more than what she was meant to be.

Eddard thought it best not to subject Jory to the torment of secret meetings with his young daughter. Though the actions were not punishable, he did want to know how Laisa happened to force the young man to bend to her will.

A spitfire, his sweet girl is. How he wished Robb to be. And before long he was thinking of his new babe, and his traits amongst all others.

He prayed to the Mother for a son.

Though, Eddard was not prepared for his prayer to be answered so soon.

The wailing of Catelyn had caught his ear, sending him scrambling towards his bedchambers were nurses and Maesters corralled at the sound of childbirth.

"To the birthing chamber, now!" shouted Maester Luwin.

Mighty as they were, Catelyn was in no condition for travel. As Catelyn put it lightly, the babe was coming, and he was a stubborn thing. Eddard was pushed out of his own chambers, laid to wait for another Stark to be birthed, red-cheeked and healthy. He prayed to the Mother and the Warrior this night, praying he lends strength to the woman who desires it most.

Eddard waited, enduring the wailing and screaming of Catelyn was harrowing and he was not the only one disturbed in the latest hours of the night.

"Father?" yawned Laisa, hand in hand with Robb, "Is mother alright?"

Laisa was startled by the unpleasantries coming from their chambers. Robb was sleeping soundly against her side, snoring and drooling as any babe would be.

"Yes, she is quite alright." he answered, unaware of the pain in his voice, "Your brother is being born as we speak."

She smiled. "Are you certain it is a boy?"

"Aye. Stubborn thing, your mother said." He beckoned his children to his side, letting them huddle in his arm.

"I was a stubborn thing, too, father."

_That you are, sweet girl._ Eddard kissed the top of her head, resting his head against the cobblestone and cradling his two pups in one arm. His cloak extended over both their shoulders with Laisa's cheek pressing against his dagger, "Father.."

"Yes?"

"Is Jory in trouble?"

Eddard laid a hand on the back of her head, twirling her curls in his fingers, "No, love."

"Then can he teach me, still?" Laisa interjected, "I think I'd be good at it."

"Well.." He was pulled from the conversation by the ongoing screaming. Eddard prayed once more, begging for mercy for both his wife and child. Laisa winced at the sounds her mother made, clinging to her father's breeches and hiding her face. He gently pressed a hand to her ear, doing what little he could to suppress the noise.

Eddard could feel her little fists bawling up in his cloak, her other gripping to Robb. "Come…let's get you two back to bed.."

He guided them away from his chambers, Laisa's little hands were shaking from her hold on him and Robb. The screaming began to fade. Once they were farther enough into the keep that Laisa could relax, holding her brother to her chest as she lugged him towards her chambers. Eddard was never ceased to be amazed at their connection, how Robb never ran to his parents nor Old Nan when he had nightmares. It was always Laisa coming to his rescue, adoring finding both children bundled up in furs, holding each other even in sleep.

"You know, Robb has to sleep in his own chambers sometime."

Laisa nod, "He will and when that day comes he won't need me anymore."

She tucked Robb in, pulling the quilts and fur over his shivering little body before climbing under the covers herself. Laisa let her head fall heavy against the pillows, staring up at the stone ceiling, silently praying to the Seven for some guidance.

"What am I to do if my brothers will not need me."

Eddard sat at the edge of their bed, holding his hand against her cheek, "You will fight; survive. You are a Stark, a Northerner. It is in your blood to be strong, to be—"

"Fierce."

"Your brothers will be lost without you, sweet girl, not only because you are my eldest but because you are strong, and they will strive to be everything you are."

Laisa managed to smile, "Do you believe that?"

"Of course." Eddard leaned forward to kiss Robb's cheek, then Laisa, and tuck them in securely, one last time. "Get some sleep, love. Your little brother will be waiting for you in the morrow."

"Goodnight, father."

"Goodnight."

Eddard satiated the hearth before taking his leave.

He shut the chamber door soundly, meeting Maester Luwin on the other side.

"Congratulations, Lord Stark. The babe is red-cheeked and healthy, she is a fighter much like Lady Stark."

Eddard swore by the Gods he heard wrong. "She, Maester?"

"Yes, my Lord. A beautiful, red-haired babe, indeed."

Perhaps, the stubborn and the fierce were not meant to be born as sons and he was in need to alter his beliefs. Eddard knocked twice before entering, finding his vision of a wife and their newest child. He adored from afar, not minding the nurses curtsying in his presence for the two people that truly mattered were skin to skin, swaddled.

"She's beautiful.."

"You've done well, m'lady."

Catelyn held her third born, staring into the eyes of this pink-faced babe who hadn't said but a wail since her birth. No birth went as planned or smoothly, one or the other was bound to meet an unfortunate fate, but the Gods had been watching over. Carefully and cautiously, it seemed. The little Stark mumbled and whined, for merely a second.

Catelyn had been tended to well by the midwives, disposing of the bloodied and soiled sheets whilst watching upon the newest mother in Winterfell. Her skin slicked in sweat, hair no longer bound by plaits and a glint of somnolence in her eyes.

"Another Tully." Eddard joked, joining Catelyn at her bedside. "And another daughter."

"And she is beautiful.."

"Aye." He answered, sitting himself behind Catelyn upon the cot, resting his chin on her shoulder. "We thought you'd be a boy."

She chuckled, "Again."

Eddard gently swept his fingers across the babe's cheek, watching her stir, swaddled in grey cloaks and furs. "Winter was kind, again."

"That is was."

Eddard nudged his cheek into the crook of Catelyn's neck, pressing a peck to her shoulder. "That is was.."

* * *

I hope you all enjoyed the prologue and I hope the trope of Lyanna Stark reborn isn't too tired out yet because I'm actually in love with the concept?

And with this story now in the fold, I hope to break the wheel on my own terms and HOPEFULLY do a much better job than D&D did, in order to provide justice to the characters that have been brutally fucked over.

Enough rambling, I truly hope this story satiates something in all of you and please don't forget to fav/follow/review, it helps me out so much that people respond to my work!

See you next time!


	2. The Worst of Winter

Welcome back!

Just wanna pop up here and thank all that have fav/followed so far, I'm so glad you guys are eager for more!

Enjoy chapter one!

* * *

"oh, when they see me coming, even the wolves will run."

— s.r.w

* * *

"Where is Laisa."

Catelyn frantically searched the courtyard, as did Eddard, in hopes of finding Laisa before the caravan arrived. He was assuring her, silently, with a hand on her shoulder that their eldest should find her way and in time. Eddard was hoping she was not hiding, though refusing to blame her if she was. His sweet girl grew fierce and wild, like a Northerner should. Her defiance for propriety did not strike well with her mother but even he could defend that she had more than good reason. As Laisa aged, she began to bear a staggering semblance to the one woman whom the king desired most; the queen loathed with all her being and was the cause of great ruin in their marriage. If it were allowed to be called as such.

"Sansa, where is your sister?"

Sansa shrugged carelessly.

Despite this, Laisa never shied from accepting it as fate—albeit unfortunate.

_Lyanna Stark lived on_, she said, _I may not be her…but I will do what ever necessary to keep her memory alive._

It was a burden he would not place on his worst enemies; abiding by the will of the Old Gods and wearing a dead woman's face as commemoration.

The caravan arrived, banners of crimson and gold waved; lions decorated their bearings. Though a Stag was king, the Lions did well in reminding their people whom was truly in control.

The whispers of the eldest's whereabouts reached the ears of the king the second he was assisted off his grand stallion. The king himself had to count the children, including the bastard, to make note that there was at least one or two missing if memory served him right.

Eddard focused on the mud he knelt upon, fixating on leather riding boots and a hand beckoning him to rise.

Robert hardly got a word out before he was interrupted by the whinnying of horses and the cheering of children.

A black shire came from opposing arch, its rider donning a dark blue gown, delicate embroidery in silver, grey riding gloves and a fur trimmed cloak held closed by direwolf clasps. Her long, raven hair pulled and thickly plaited down her back, several flowers and silver cuffs acted as decoration.

"Lady Laisa! Lady Laisa!" Many of the children called, smiling and holding trinkets to hand off to the lady.

She was laughing, smiling just as brightly, "Thank you, loves, they're beautiful."

A young girl sat at the frontmost of Laisa's saddle, wearing a circlet of primroses and a stick posing as a staff. "Would you mind holding these for me?"

The little girl nodded excitedly, being given bundles of flowers, wolf trinkets, and a prayer wheel.

The pup at her steed's hooves yipped and whined at the children.

"Hush, Viera."

Laisa pulled tautly on her steed's reins, stopping before the amusement and familiar faces who were astonished to see her present. First, she handed the young girl to one of her guards to set her down, then respectfully bowed her head, the children and her guards knelt before their king and held their positions.

"Deepest apologies for my tardiness, your grace. I seemed to have lost track of time with the children."

The guard to her left assisted her dismount, kneeling before him with regret settling in her stomach. Laisa was afraid to lift her head. She knew the stories of Lyanna Stark and king Robert Baratheon, she was unaware of just how deep his love for her ran.

And he would not be so kind in reminding her. "Come forth."

Laisa kept her head down, digging her heels into the earth—some lousy attempt to convince the ground beneath her to concave, should it swallow her whole. A silent refusal came about in her mind, but her feet carried her forward, putting on her brave face and cunning smile. It wasn't for herself nor her father, it was meant for the king in hopes that he would avoid her at all cost.

One can dream, can't she.

Robert met her halfway, getting a better look at the woman who stood before him. Proud, vivacious, and full of the fire he had come to love so many moons ago.

Laisa raised her chin, narrowing her eyes and glowered at the king.

"Lyanna.." Robert was breathless at the sight. Stark grey only enhanced the vision before him, for Lyanna had lived and breathed, right before his very eyes.

Some days, she questioned why he pondered on and on about her. The king himself admits to forgetting her face, how could he truly remember Lyanna and her everlasting beauty if the memory was not as clear as it once was when she were alive.

Laisa exchanged glances of helplessness with her father. "Your grace?"

She never feared the king, nor the distant remembrances that he clung to with a hope that his true partner may be alive, even to this day. Lyanna Stark lived on and it was a legacy she was desperate to part from. There came a time where she was proud to be an identical to her aunt, but once it was over, she avoided looking into mirrors to ignore her momentary reminder. Perhaps, wearing the face of the dead was not as privileged and gracious as she once believed. The minds of children were easily malleable, that may have been why her father told her the stories of Lyanna.

_No, no father is not that cruel._

Laisa looked to her father again, now pleading in silence to get this pungent man away from her. king or not, she wanted to drive a hatchet deep into his belly, disembowel the man and be done with the tall tales of the once great Robert Baratheon and his failed attempts to save Lyanna from what many know as her barbaric end.

He took one last good, long look at Laisa before turning on his heel and sneering something at Eddard, sending his apologizes to his daughter and his queen for his dismissive behavior.

_the Queen._

Laisa was privy to the despise Queen Cersei held against the dead. She must have not believed the whispers of the eldest Stark daughter and dismissed them as obsessive mongrels fighting over a prized woman in their history.

One look.

One look was all it took for Cersei to remain frigid in Laisa's stead.

She curtsied, kindly greeting, "My Queen." The tremble in her voice was noticeable.

Cersei paid no mind and withdrew herself from the courtyard at Catelyn's side, being escorted to the keep with her two children in tow.

Laisa had not found the courage to lift her head, even as Cersei disappeared into the darkness of the castle. Her limbs were shaking. It took the gentle hand of a young boy to snap her out of her fragile state. She reared at the touch at first, finding the boy with dirt stained cheeks and a crooked smile looking up at her. "May we play now, Lady Laisa?"

She knelt, gently caressing his black hair. "Not today, love. I…have very important things to tend to, but tomorrow we shall play, I promise."

The children understood, and with sweet smiles, curtsies and bows, they had ran back to their homes to finish up their own set of deeds. Except for one.

It was the young girl, Ila, her name was. Sweet thing with brown hair and bigger brown eyes. She removed the circlet, placing it upon Laisa's head, then pressed a kiss to her cheek.

"Thank you, m'lady."

"Pleasure is all mine." she smiled, following it with a whisper, "Your grace."

The little girl giggled lively as she sprinted away. Laisa admits she saw herself, at least herself at one time, in that sweet girl and felt a twinge of envy. For her life may not of highborn blood, her life was quite…simple.

Though, she should remind herself that simplicity was subjective.

Laisa removed the circlet, still clutching it in her fist as she pulled her stallion by his reigns. Viera followed her master, closely. Though unheard by Laisa, Robb was the first to take notice of Viera—hackles rising and a threatening growl emanating from the pup.

For her warning was meant for the Lions that came, unwelcomed and unwanted.

* * *

The Godswood was her father's place of ease. He came to the heart tree, cleaned Ice on occasion, and looked into the reflection of the pool ahead of the mossed trunk and root he sat upon, wishing the world were as simple as the nature around him. The Summer months had been kind, for the moors were not blanketed in thick snow and the pool had not froze over.

Laisa came here for similar reasons. To feel closer to the Gods, to clear her head, and to seek answers when her mother nor father could provide.

She rest on the mossed roots; Viera resting comfortably in her lap; Half Moon freely roamed, nipping on grass and wandered, something well deserved.

It was the quiet that eased the existing tension in her bones, relieving the pressure in her mind and expelling any troubles she may have had. The heart tree, nor the Seven, may have solved all mortal problems but the ones that troubled her the most…she was the utmost grateful. In such peaceful times in the Godswood, Laisa troubled herself with the burden of Lyanna Stark. A passionate, adored woman whose legacy she vowed to uphold had come crumbling around her. In her childish mind, pursuing the likeness of Lady Stark, making her father proud for the woman she had become and still can be was the only grail Laisa desired. Her father tried with reason, with fact, and his utmost respect to convince the babe Laisa was that Lyanna was gone.

Only now, she wished she had listened more.

"Does something trouble you, m'lady?"

Laisa found herself staring at Jory, looking fancily dressed in his black garb and cloak. Noting the two longswords at his hips, finding it…strange. Perhaps, he felt at ease and was not the only man suspicious around the golden lions.

"No. I'm…just enjoying a little fresh air."

"Would you mind some company?"

Laisa shook her head, shuffling aside to allow Jory space to sit.

"Are you sure you're all right, m'lady? You seemed…spooked by the presence of the king and his family."

"Tell me, Jory," she murmured, "How does a wolf cower in the presence of a lion _and _a stag."

Jory leaned forward, resting his elbows against his knees to gaze into the reflection of the pool. He was watching her movements, her expressions; how uncomfortable she was, knowing that the king was within reach. "You were not cowering, love. If anything, you made that stag and pompous pride of his shudder. The king…he was dead-faced as if he had seen a ghost; the queen, she might've had a thought or two cross her mind when she realized who you are."

"Who am, or who I embody."

Jory winced at the venom in her voice. "Laisa I—my deepest apologies, m'lady."

"You need not apologize, you have not wronged me."

Laisa lied easily these days. She acted as if anything regarding her aunt did not bother her, when there were days she could hardly function, knowing that she may have been walking, breathing, and renamed yet Lyanna was desired. Be it by her father, her Uncle…or even her king.

Without much thought, Laisa scoot closer to Jory, resting her cheek against his shoulder as his arm curled tightly around her. He was the only man who saw her for Laisa. She found comfort in her childhood friend, more than she had bargained for. Simply because he was not seeking the dead, he sought the living girl with pretty, grey eyes and rosy cheeks.

Maybe, it was her fault for allowing herself too close to a man she was not allowed to keep.

"When I was three and ten," she spoke, "My father found me in my chambers, kneeling in a pile of broken glass with a shard in my fist, dangerously close to my face. I hadn't remembered breaking the mirror, much less the act I'd commit with its shattered pieces."

"He wrestled the shard from my hand and demanded to know what I had done." Viera climbed off her lap, stretching her front and hind legs before trotting off into the wood for her midday hunt, "I screamed at him I was tired of people staring, whispering 'Lyanna Stark is alive'. I attempted to disfigure myself just to break away from her grasp on me. I thought…maybe if I was ugly, a hideous scar on my face would cease the whispering. The people would move on and I would be free, to be Laisa Stark once more."

"I have been driven to the brink of madness because the Gods cursed me with the ideal Stark trait. How unfortunate is that."

Jory was not sure what to say in response. He was sure if he expressed pity, Laisa would not appreciate the undeserved, unneeded compassion; laugh, and he might lose a finger for his humor; try and understand her actions, he's just asking for a deeper conversation of dead woman and he assumed she was tired of the spiel.

Laisa tilted her head up, propping her chin onto his shoulder, bearing a smile. "The only thing that truly stopped me that day was worrying if you were going to think I was no longer beautiful."

"Of course scars fade, as do looks eventually but I was intended to carve a line from the tip of my forehead down to my chin." Laisa traced her finger down her left cheek, where she initially sketched her intended wound.

Jory traced his gloved finger down the same path as she, curling his fingers beneath her chin to raise her head up just a little higher. "I still would'a thought you to be the most beautiful thing in this world."

He kissed her forehead in response, knowing if he would have taken the advantage that she offered…it would have not been right or within his bounds. Jory knew of her infatuation; she was rather shy about it and never brought any unwanted attention in fear her father may find out. And he would not jeopardize either of their positions. Neither would she.

"I apologize, that was stupid of me to do." Laisa immediately moved an arm's reach, uncomposed and head hanging low. She was aware that his feelings were unrequited, and he was protecting her from the devastation, of how a relationship between people of their stature would end.

It was dangerous and a casualty neither could afford.

"You should return. My father cannot be missing his Captain…especially now that we have been overrun by lions."

"And where shall you be, m'lady, so I can send for another guard in my stead."

Laisa kindly refused, "I have Viera with me and Half Moon, too. And snow isn't too kind to Southerners, Ser, I'm sure I'll be all right."

Jory respected her decision, bowing his head before turning out of the Godswood.

_A peculiar man he is_, Laisa's thoughts intruded on her moments of peace. She then let her mind wander to what possibilities lie ahead, if her father would approve…perhaps where she should have started was if Jory had feelings in return. A silly young girl's crush gnawed at her responsibilities as a Stark. As an unwed woman.

Laisa leaned further against the weirwood, finding herself fluttering her eyes shut for the sounds of the Godswood was a serenade she could no longer ignore.

Just as she were to welcome sleep, Viera's warning snarls had startled her awake. She watched as her hackles raise, snarling out into the open with no visible threat in sight.

Her eyes darted from tree to tree, thick brush and out in the open to find nothing worth Viera's behavior.

"Viera, come."

The wolf hadn't moved but an inch, taking one hesitant step back with her teeth bared and lowered her front half to the ground in preparation to launch at whatever or whomever was lurking in the shadows. Laisa recoiled when Viera barked, giving the presence one final warning. It was ruled out that any familiar or family could be prowling in the wood, for Viera would not act this way if it were. She regret not allowing Jory to send another, more so blamed herself for not carrying her bow and quills.

She-Wolves backed into a corner, all alone in the Godswood. This was starting to sound like the plot of a song they cheer in pubs whilst soldiers drank amongst themselves.

"Viera—"

"I apologize for the intrusion my lady; I did not think I'd have to surrender to the beast at your feet."

Viera snarled.

The man halted, hand curling around the gold hilt of his sword at his hip at her warn.

"Sit, Viera." Laisa instructed, watching as her wolf eased her hind legs to the ground, hackles and her defensive behavior not at ease. "Announce yourself."

He lifted his hand, kneeling before Laisa and Viera, hoping that this courtesy would save him from having his throat torn out.

"Ser Jaime Lannister, of the Kingsguard, my lady."

Laisa's eyes flared, immediately flinging herself forward to grab Viera by the scruff of her neck and pull her back.

The pup whined. "I-I apologize for her behavior, Ser. She is not comfortable around those she does not know…especially when my safety is of concern."

"No need, my lady. It was foolish of me to approach you without identifying myself."

Laisa nodded her thanks.

Jaime arose, straightening himself and placing his hand back onto the gold hilt. "The king has instructed I be your guard. Your other dog let me know where you spent the rest of your day so I could watch over you."

_Jory. _She spared the confliction towards his rudeness, turning to face the pool ensure Viera was no longer staring at the man with drooling chops and narrowed eyes.

"The king, you say." she muttered, "What is it of his concern that requires a Kingsguard be at the side of a lady rather than himself."

"Yes, Lady Stark, the king is…well I'm sure you understand."

"No, Ser." Laisa kindly dismissed. The worst winter was held captive in her eyes and even Jaime could not ignore the chill, "I do not understand."

"Don't make me spell it out for you girl, you're smarter than that."

With that said, Laisa stood tall with Viera on her heels as she fetched Half Moon, her shaking grip slipping off the reigns whilst she lead him out of the Godswood. She skated past Jaime, hissing one last remark before disappearing into the wood.

"Lyanna Stark is dead, she has been for many years and I'm not going to subject myself to play her part to satisfy what obsession he has with her. And neither should you."

* * *

"Must I really wear a dress?"

Laisa chuckled, "Yes, Arya. We've been over this and as much as I'd like to trade my gown for yours, I cannot. We must look…presentable."

Arya snorted, lowering her chin to her chest before Laisa raised it once more to keep her head leveled as she braided. She winced at the sharp tugs and pins being forced into her bun, reaching a hand up to scratch the tender parts of her scalp. Laisa gently rubbed her thumb over where it throbbed the most, hearing her sisters' hum of satisfaction.

"I look stupid." she sighed.

"You look beautiful, love."

Arya wasn't the least bit convinced. "I do not understand why we have to look like this."

As though her mind had been read, Laisa wondered the same. Perhaps it could have been because Southern styles were intricate, delicate, and far more flattering—or so the Southerners had one believe—in comparison to the North. A simple plait and a dark blue gown from her existing wardrobe could have sufficed but their mother was persistent in pleasing their guests. Simplicity did not exist in the South.

Arya discarded the gown left in her chambers with haste; Sansa had made her own out of pure infatuation and respect for the Baratheons; Laisa, on the other hand, added her own simple yet noticeable touches of an already existing, unfinished gown.

The pale blue gown was cut into a flattering neckline, one that may have exposed too much and lacked sleeves. The skirts fell straight, layered with white silk and embroidered with pale silver stitching. It was significantly lighter than her winter gown, unlined with fur and not made of thick wools. Her additions consisted of lace sleeves sheered off another dress made for her by Sansa and two direwolf head brooches on either side of her shoulders. Originally, the metal had been a clasp on one of her cloaks but with Sansa's trait of needlework and innovation, her Southern homage had been improved.

"Mother wants a good first impression, Arya. The king may be father's brother in terms of affection and closeness, but the queen is.."

Arya sniggered, "A pompous arse."

Laisa immediately covered Arya's mouth after the insult had left her lips, and giggles ensued. The vibrations of her lively laughter vibrating against Laisa's fingers made her laugh, too.

"You cannot speak that way, Arya, you do not know who might be listening." She scolded but was unable to keep up the motherly façade. Laisa, herself, ended up in a fit of giggles.

Arya nodded, a hand still covering her mouth.

Once her hand was removed, Arya jumped up out of her seat then took a curtsey, offering up her hand. "I request to be your accompaniment, Lady Stark."

"It would be my pleasure, Lady Stark."

Arya scowled. "I'm _not_ a lady."

_Of course you're not._ Laisa was reminded of much of herself at Arya's age. It was a new, complex feeling of pride that Arya would not face the brave world alone, denying what is to be expected of her and forging something better that should become of her with age. Something that would make her father, her sisters, and her brothers that much prouder.

Arya tugged on Laisa's arm, guiding her out of the keep and straight towards the feast hall where the liveliness lived on for the night to come. Through the doors lied a wasteland of drunken, gluttonous men and the Northern spirit that lived on through the invasion of crimson and gold.

Laisa seated herself next to Robb, intentionally stealing his mug of ale whilst Arya found her friends on the opposite end.

Sansa was being too obvious, eyeing the prince like prized meats and continued to shyly look away whilst she smiled. Her conversation the Jeyne Poole must have been an interesting one, for the girls giggled and whispered amongst each other every moment the Prince had looked her way.

What a sight, it truly was. Laisa often envied Sansa's naivety, her knowledge of love was from mother and father; books about gallant knights in shining armor; kings and queens living happily ever after with their litter of children. Perhaps, it was her naivety driving her to marry Joffrey, to become Queen and bear his children. If only it was ever so simple.

"Have you seen Jon anywhere?"

Robb shook his head, sorely speaking, "Mother didn't formally invite him. He's out in the practice yard, beating up old dummies and freezing his arse off. Uncle Benjen just saw 'em."

Bastards were not allowed at feasts, for it would be a dishonor. A disgrace. An unpleasantry in the face of royalty. Laisa never thought her mother to be a cruel woman until Jon Snow tarnished her House. The act of infidelity bestowed her father on a yearlong war. Laisa did not blame him. Though the perils that swung between life and death surely did not excuse breaking the sacred vow between a man and his wife; to the Gods, Laisa did not see it as such. Once again, nativity struck, and she hadn't known love nor infidelity. Her opinions were open to change whence the time had come for such responsibility, but until then, she only had one complaint.

Her mother's irrefutable behavior towards Jon. He, an innocent babe, taking the hefty weight of the blame for her father's mistake.

So much for a son not being responsible for the sins of their predecessors.

"Uncle Benjen rode in, all the way from the wall?"

He nod. "Talked of wildlings and vows—Jon is convinced."

Laisa furrowed her brows, stealing his ale again, "Convinced of what?"

It hadn't dawned on him that Laisa was unaware of Jon's own forging. Robb leaned forward into the table, overlooking his plate of rabbit and deer meat. "Jon is thinking of taking the Black."

"The Night's Watch," she repeated, sounding as appalled as she looked, "Are you sure?"

"Do you expect him to stay in Winterfell, where he is under scrutiny for breathing, and live his life as nothing but father's bastard?"

Laisa snapped, "He is no bastard, he is our _brother_, Robb. Do you not understand that if he goes to the wall, we will never see him again."

"As long as he is in Winterfell, he is a bastard and nothing will change that." said Robb, taking a mouthful of rabbit flank, "The wall will give him purpose, he cannot have us protecting him forever. I love our brother, I do, but Jon is of no importance here. He cannot cling to your skirt forever, sister."

While he might have been right, it did not hurt any less. She picked at her plate, tearing dear meat with her fork and nibbled. She scanned the hall, finding Sansa at the high table at the farthest part of the hall. Her conversation with the queen must have boded well with the spritely skip in her step back to Jeyne.

Without word, Laisa excused herself and startled Robb with her departure as she never was one to shy away from a feast for that matter until he found where her gaze had landed. Amongst the head of browns and blacks, a gold head lurked in the shadows.

One that mirrored her every move.

Freed from the stale air of the feasting hall, Laisa took a deep breath of the winter air. She carefully maneuvered through the snow, her skirts in a clutch as she wandered through the courtyards in search of her dear brother. Thankful that Winterfell had grown silent throughout the night, the sound of hacking and grunting was a ways.

The practice yard was blanketed in snow. Jon, alone and taming his rage on a hay-stuffed sack wrapped over thick wood beams that had been beaten dull.

Laisa carefully approached him, keeping her distance after learning a lesson or two from Jory about startling a man wielding a weapon.

"I think he's dead, Jon."

The remark that stung the tip of Jon's tongue went better unsaid. "You think so?"

She rounded the wood fencing, leaning right up against it to look Jon square in the face, though he was avoiding hers. "I hear the Night's Watch is expecting you."

Jon rolled his shoulders uncomfortably, "I'm following Uncle Benjen back to Castle Black to take my vows."

Laisa's silence spoke volumes.

"Does it displease you."

"Knowing tonight is the last time I will ever see your face displeases me."

Laisa could not dare to try and understand the struggles Jon faces. Highborn blood he may have, but the surname Snow only got a bastard so far. She fought with the idea of presenting legitimacy to her father, for Jon not only looked a Stark, he _is _a Stark.

Her mother was the only obstacle between Jon's legitimacy, and she would be determined to ensuring it never happened.

"Would you miss me that much?" Jon teased.

Laisa gently smacked his arm, "Of course. You're my little brother, what am I to do if you go off to the Wall and I'm left to wither from not defending my brothers from mean little girls?"

He laughed.

There it was, the glorious hearty laughter of Jon that made her heart warm. Laisa was not going to spoil it, she would rather spend the last moments with her brother in bliss.

"Has Jory taught you anything of longswords yet?"

"He tried."

Jon beckoned her, holding out his own sword for her to wield. She took the hilt into her hands, only to underestimate its weight and let it hit the snow, hearing her whine, "Gods sake Jon, it's heavy!"

Wielding with two, smaller hands, his sword was much too heavy for Laisa to lift—let alone brandish in combat.

She managed to muster enough strength to lift it from the snow mount but was knocked back by its weight once more. Jon stuck his gloved hand out to block the sharp blade from hacking down on her head.

"Gods, you really are a weakling aren't you."

Laisa sneered, "I'm armed."

"Hardly, come here before you cut yourself."

Jon closed in from behind, placing his hands over hers to balance its mass between the two sets of hands holding it still. He adjusted her grip, one hand higher on the hilt and the other gripping just above the pommel. Handling Laisa with care, Jon swung the blade over their left shoulders, holding it still until she was aware of her position.

"When you swing, put all your weight into it. And make it count." Jon instructed.

Laisa understood, allowing her force to be put into her hands and hacked the blade down right as Jon released his grip. The blade wedged itself between the wood, it wasn't a clean cut, but it was the aim that mattered. And if a poor fellow were before her, that blade was an inch or two short of cutting his head right off.

As she pulled the sword from the wood, Laisa held it as he initially positioned her hands then tried her damned hardest to keep herself upright. Jon took a precautionary step back as she raised his sword and hacked it down once more.

"Look at that, you're getting the hang of it already."

She snorted, "The hell I am, I can barely hold it much less _use _it as its intended."

The blade was removed, and instead of resuming her aimless hacking, Laisa drove the blade straight through the sack of hay.

Jon took ahold of the hilt, her hands still beneath his, "Okay, now, when you're stabbing like that, don't stop there because you got it in, use all your weight again to drive it right through but be quick about it."

Though, swordsmanship was not her niche, Laisa thanked Jon for his kindness and the lesson, though so simple, it could be of use one day.

"Come with me."

Jon frowned, "To where?"

"The feast," Laisa initiated her persuasive manner, a smile could've helped, too. "Mother can sulk about father's infidelity until the end of time, but _you_, are formally invited to whatever Hellish condition the hall is in the last I left it."

Though he appreciated her cordial invite, Jon could not accept and blatantly disrespect Lady Stark in that manner. She hated him enough, there was no sense in adding to it.

"Laisa, you know I can't do that."

She was preparing to accept his decline long before her offer. So, Laisa had done what she did best and separated from Jon, standing out in the blanketed practice yard, her hand stretched towards him.

"Then, at least give me one last dance, Snow."

Jon cocked his head, "There's no music."

Laisa held her hand out, regardless. "That's never stopped us before."

_humor her._ A lie amongst the many he told himself tonight, sheathing his sword and taking her hand to lead the dance. His hand found its way to the small of her back; hers at the broad of his shoulder, hand in hand. Jon moved slowly, calmly in circles, almost as if he were improving his footwork and hoping Laisa hadn't noticed. He twirled her then brought her back against his chest as they swayed to the tune that played faintly in the distance. Laisa twirled herself out once more, meeting him in the center with their hands pressed flat against each other.

They continued on for what felt like hours until the echoes of applaud had startled the two. "How touching."

Jon immediately drew his sword, tucking Laisa behind him until the figure manifested from the shadows.

"Put your blade away, boy, you don't want this fight."

Laisa peeked from behind Jon's shoulder, furrowing her brows in concern, "Ser Jaime? What are you doing here?"

"Did you truly believe that the king was bluffing when he appointed me to be your guard, Lady Stark." he stated, bluntly.

It was as if Jon had cast her a look that read,_ your guard?_, but had kept quiet.

"His Grace watched as you snuck off into the night with no word of your whereabouts. He sent me to find you." Jaime's tone was tedium, "And I'd rather be tracking wolves than spending another moment in that feast hall. Northerners aren't the least bit entertaining."

"Jon, would you mind checking on Viera for me…I'd like to speak to Ser Jaime alone."

Jon should have taught her more than hacking and poking, for her own personal safety. "Just shout if you need anything. I'll come runnin'."

Laisa diffused his threat quietly, "I'm sure that won't be necessary."

Waiting for Jon to walk off into the darkness, Laisa turned sharply on her heel to confront the Lion head on.

_The worst of winters. _

"Do tell me why you are truly here, Ser. I do not take kindly to being followed or watched, for that matter. By your king or otherwise."

Jaime grinned, mocking a bow. "Forgive me, my lady. I do hope you're not troubled by my presence."

"I'm quite troubled." she murmured, "Earlier in the Godswood, as though you had appeared from nowhere and hid in the shadows as you did now. Tell me was I not to be privy of your _guard_ at the discretion of the king or is prowling in your nature."

His lips pressed in a tight line, assuming the cordial position before her. Jory did something similar—straightened his back, adjusted his stance and held his head high—when he was charged with being her protection when she was not fond of his shadow cast a few feet behind.

"All right.."

As Laisa was making way back to the feast hall, Robb was heading in her direction, armed and Grey Wind at his feet. She must have thought this is what Jon meant when he would come running...the Kingslayer would have a much harder time explaining why Robb forced his hand to the king and their father if this night ended in tragedy. The Lord Commander would have no qualms slaying a bastard, perhaps the quarrel would have been well below his station.

"Should I be expecting the young wolves too?" Jaime quipped. "It _would_ be an unfair advantage to slay a child."

He sneered, "You had no plights when it was your king, why should a child be any different."

Robb took Laisa's hand, pulling her towards him. He whispered something to her, nodding to Grey Wind as he was to escort her back to the festivities. Robb stayed put where he stood, unafraid and at an advantage if Ser Jaime decided to draw first.

"Keep away from her, Kingslayer." he bellowed, "And tell your _king _that if he tries to force another guard onto her, remind him the dead was laid to rest long ago. Leave Laisa be."

"And if I don't."

A snarling, guttural and angry came from behind, a black coat and barred teeth, it was not Grey Wind at his aid. Jaime recognized the beast, knew her well enough to threaten drawing his blade in preparation.

"It would be a damn shame for a lion of your stature to be food for the wolves."

* * *

**EDITED 4/7/2019 ****(**Edited a few inconsistencies!**)**

Ok I'm not gonna lie to you guys, the first chapter has always been my greatest struggle, in almost anything I write, and I'm sorry this came so late I wanted to post yesterday but writers block got the best of me.

And to answer _Guest_, Nope Jon is still here. He may not be as prevalent as he was in the shows but he'll still be here!

And is it too annoying to already have a playlist for this story...or...

I hope you enjoy it so far, don't forget to fav/follow/review!

See you next time!


	3. The Warrior

wow this was LONG overdue! I took a little break to clear my head and my thoughts because writers block was making me feel so overwhelmed and now here we are.

Thank you to everyone who has fav/followed/reviewed so far!

I hope you guys enjoy this chapter!

Enjoy!

* * *

"we'll just watch, listen,

while ravens make conversation about what's waiting"

— e.s.

* * *

**JAIME**

_Food for the wolves, he says._

Jaime took great pleasure in reveling in the events taken place in the practice yards. A young wolf threatening the lion. Oh, how proud that boy must have felt.

The night had ended early, an endless string of orders from the drunken fool and now here he stood, guarding the bedchambers of Laisa Stark. How truly pitiful his place as Robert's loyal Kingsguard became. Defending kings, driving a blade into the back of another, taking victories in the currency of limbs and blood, and now reduced to a watchdog.

_Lannisters are not fools,_ his father's voice of unneeded reason flooded his mind. Perhaps, it was the lack of sleep and dullness consuming him for hours that his father actually began making sense.

Jaime thought to rest his eyes, release the tension in his neck. To slouch comfortably against the stone walls of the Keep. Just for a moment.

What could have gone awry if he were to relax for a minute or two.

A long minute that was.

Jaime found himself slipping into the embrace of sleep and before long he could truly feel the weight of his armor, resting heavy on his frame. It was always his legs that gave out first. He wasn't aware nor quick with his reactions, soon expecting to hit the solid ground and expect to shoulder off the aches. A pain he was quite fond of.

Though, if he remembered accurately, stone grounds did not feel soft nor smelled of a winter's rose.

"Ser Jaime?"

He must have gone truly mad. Since when have stones ever spoke.

Half-lidded, barely fluttering open to the sound of a sweet girl—he could only hope for—awakening him from that moment of tranquility. Jaime blinked several times, attempting to compose himself until he was held still by the gentle grip that caged his center.

Once his vision was not longer blurred, he had awoken, head as clear as day. And staring into the deep sea of Tully blue.

"Have you been here all night?"

Jaime cleared his throat, adjusting his posture, "Unfortunately, my lady."

Her hands were still holding him steady if he decided to collapse on himself again. Jaime was fighting off the exhaustion as they spoke, the young woman before him had cast a look of pity.

What in the Seven Hells could he have done to deserve that look.

"Come in."

Jaime blinked, again. "Forgive me, can you repeat that."

"You must be exhausted, Ser. Please, rest. I know you have orders from your king but—"

"My lady, that is not wise." He argued. "It is nothing I cannot deal with on my own."

Laisa had somehow coaxed him, she acted as the crutch at his left, Jaime's initial refusal hadn't stopped her from lugging him into her chambers. It was her scowling, perhaps the most threatening thing he had witnessed all day.

"Rest, Ser. What they don't know won't kill them." Laisa sat him down on her bed, resting her hands on his shoulders; a weight he could have easily brushed off and overpower. Jaime could feel his exhaust settling into his bones, he couldn't ignore it for much longer. And the comfort of her bed was starting to feel inviting.

He yielded without further dispute.

Laisa quickly removed her hands as if she were afraid to touch him further.

"Nervous?"

She hadn't answered but the bloom of her cheeks was enough to make him chuckle.

Jaime removed his cloak, folding it over his arm and lying it to rest off the foot of her bed. If he were to get comfortable, might as well remove more. Or perhaps if Laisa Stark witnessed his moments of undress, she might combust.

He unbuckled the straps to his breastplate, the rerebraces, feeling absolute relief once the weighted steel was relieved and lied back against the mountain of furs and quilts.

Laisa watched at how effortlessly he fell into peace.

Jaime was short of inducing sleep to suit her demands, despite being truly thankful for the opportunity to gather some strength.

It was a strenuous task to watch over a noblewoman, indeed.

"Why am I here, Lady Stark."

Her brows knit in confusion. "I don't understand what you mean."

"In your chambers, in your bed." he stated bluntly.

"A kindness."

Jaime chuckled, "A _kindness_. One I might expect you see to it to be repaid."

"I don't expect to be repaid nor do I need to be indebted to, Ser."

"Why."

She emitted from behind the divider, shyly shrugging her shoulders, "It's in my nature, I suppose. I do not place a price on my goodwill."

Jaime did not think it wise to have a man—of his stature or not was unimportant—in her chambers. He shrugged off the notion of what could be made of a Kingsguard and a woman of her standing.

The celibate by vow and virtue, alone with a maiden—it was tavern banter at the very least.

He closed his eyes, deeply sighing as his body was surrounded by the warmth and comfort. Jaime suspected she was gazing, it was hard to rest if there were a pair of wandering eyes upon him, though he would not have any qualms.

"I watched you with the bastard." Jaime seemed to frighten her, "I don't believe I've seen _children_ struggle with wielding a sword as you did."

"My brother." Laisa presumed it was a bite at an insult. "And it's not my talent, Ser. Never wanted it to be."

"What is your talent, Lady Stark. Forcing men into your chambers against their will or masking your demands and true intentions behind this so-called kindness you speak of."

"Or perhaps it is to torment your king."

The girl became rigid.

Jaime must have struck a nerve.

He was not sure he understood the infatuation with this Lyanna Stark. He's heard of her, too much for his liking, yet never having seen her face Jaime would have to entrust in the king's instinct.

A ghost wandered the halls of Winterfell and the afflictions it had on his king; it was truly a great honor to witness.

Robert consumed his weight worth of drink and stunk heavily of it. A whoring fool he made himself out to be, frightened by the image of a young girl, what a disgrace he was.

"He isn't the only one tormented by the dead, Ser."

Laisa lowered her eyes, moving to the stool closest to her vanity. Jaime noticed something awfully interesting, the webbed cracks in the glass. How she refused to look into it. He thought that was a common theme of her chambers, there were no glasses, and if any they were broken.

"Does Lyanna Stark trouble you this much, girl."

She nod, slow. "Yes. People like your king do very little to let me forget it."

The chamber became silent once more, if it weren't the sounds of lively commotion going on down in the courtyards, Jaime did not think he could rest. And he could not ignore the shuffling of the young girl, stuffing items into several trunks. He noticed how slowly she did so.

"Sparing time?"

"Ser, you don't have to make light conversation with me. I invited you in so you could rest, and not collapse from exhaustion on the orders of your king." she said, quite sharply, "You are of no use to me in your condition."

_and she bites back._

Jaime propped his arm beneath his head, getting a better look at the young wolf. She was quick and damned near quiet; he could hardly, if at all, hear her footfalls pacing the cobblestone

"Where is your little beast."

Laisa sighed, "In the courtyards, being trained with the hounds."

"A direwolf and a pack of hounds. Sounds ominous."

"Wild animals have their quarrels with discipline."

Jaime assumed she were hinting to something but had bitten her tongue by the looks of it. And hard.

"If there's something you need to say, girl, just say it." He nipped.

Laisa opened her mouth to say something but quickly pursed her lips. She busied herself, packing her possessions and shutting up the trunk with a loud slam of the lid.

"Forgive me, Ser, I'm..." she murmured, "This is the first time I'm leaving Winterfell. I'm not particularly fond of the ride to King's Landing."

"Perhaps I should have asked if it is the king that troubles you."

"I haven't seen the king since I was a babe. I saw the man once, when he was fit to be king and now he makes a mockery of himself, his wife, his children—" Laisa slammed the second trunk, shutting it up tight, "Of me."

It seemed the utter terror settled in and Laisa turned crimson.

Jaime's eyes bore deep into her back, watching her figure grow tense.

She whispered, "I apologize, Ser. That…that was not appropriate of me to say."

"At least we agree on one thing. That fat oaf makes a mockery of my sister, daily. Whelping twenty bastards with twenty different whores, sometimes all at once." Jaime concluded, adjusting his position to lie on his back, "He won't be hearing your utterances from me, my lady, I can assure you of that."

"Thank you."

Jaime lied back against her pillows, finding that sweet scent of the blue winter rose all the more intoxicating. The morning sun had poured through the open shades, a cool breeze fanned lightly across his cheeks, and the brush of soft furs tickled his chin.

He fluttered his eyes open, lids feeling heavier with every blink. Jaime caught a glimpse of Laisa Stark, cloaking him with her quilts.

"Rest easy, Ser."

Jaime thought he mumbled something, but before long his world became black and consumed by the aroma of winter roses.

* * *

Jaime shot up, screaming. He was coated in a thin sheen of sweat, hair sticking to his skin, choking on his own air, throwing off the heavy layers.

He coughed, heaving in the cold breeze, catching his breath.

Even to this day, the Mad King still burdened his thoughts, his memory. What the dying king uttered for a time whilst he bled out, beside his decrepit throne. Those words, his intentions, what he knew—Robert was not the only man plagued with ghosts.

_Burn them all!_

His head felt heavy, lifting it was a task. Jaime scrubbed his face in attempt to awaken himself, expecting to hear of his absence throughout the night and early morn. _Gods_ was there ever a time for peace. The door to the bedchambers swung open with intent, the threshold crowded with two Stark men and a girl, pale complexed and unsteady on her feet.

"The hell is he doin' in here." One guard drawled, taking a better hold of Laisa before passing her into the arms of another. "Ser Rodrik, please it's alright.." she dismissed, her voice fell slack. The sea that raged in her eyes had froze over, hollowed and void of all emotion.

_If the fat man is Rodrick Cassel, that means this must be… _"Jory, put your sword down." Laisa demanded, "He is my guest. He is no threat."

_Guest?_ Jaime had not realized the grin creeping onto his lips. "Yes, her guest. All night long, we were getting to know each other quite well. Northern girls are much quieter than my brother attested."

Both, Ser Rodrik and Jory drew their swords. Was execution the penalty for a pun these days?

"Speak of Lady Stark in such a way again and your tongue will be sent to your father." Jory bit, though his threat appeared a bit hollow.

Laisa was not as uneasy as he had intended.

"How unfair," Jaime remarked. "Does it please you to threaten and attack an unarmed man."

"Had it pleased you to attack your king, _Ser_."

_Kingslayer, Kingslayer. Reduced to a glorified bodyguard and a man whom has no honor—for what honor lies in killing a Mad King. _Jaime rode out the tension, abruptly standing and redressing himself in his armor before exiting the chambers.

He shouted, "I await your presence, Lady Stark. King's orders."

The Great Keep was a maze of cobblestone and corridors, wandering and wandering until he had found its exit.

Jaime thought to find his sister, first and foremost, to ease his many tensions until it dawned on him that she was no longer seeking his affection. It could have been something he had done the day before or twenty years ago, his twin, his love and life was quite a complicated woman. One that he had no choice in loving.

Or so he told himself.

He reiterated plenty to keep himself steady. To keep their lies straight.

No other utterances than having no choice and the histories of the Targaryen dynasty. In moments of doubt, the assurance that if one noble House accomplished it, where was the shame, the guilt if either Lannister child had any remaining.

Cersei had come into his purview, Myrcella and Tommen flanking her.

Jaime laid eyes on her, only to be ignored. What could he have done. _Was it the Stark girl? _If it were, how could she blame him for following his king's orders.

He was set to go after her, only for a moment to speak a few words until he felt the slight tap on his bicep, finding Laisa Stark red-faced and scowling.

"Do you take pleasure in embarrassing a lady, Ser Jaime, or have you gone completely mad."

"Mad, no." Jaime grinned. "Though, it was amusing to see your dogs become so riled. I suppose that counts as three Stark men whom have threatened my life, and you do not see me hacking hands and tongues at their banter."

Laisa nipped, "And you do not see me loosing an arrow into your eye for insinuating we had any relation."

"Yet, here we are."

She parted her lips, as if she were to snap back at his comment but clammed up. Jaime considered it a battle won.

He followed her as she turned on her heel and departed, keeping a sharp eye for any potential threats. Jaime thought to where he would rather be and what he would rather be doing than trailing Lady Stark as she went about her morning, greeting common folk and her men, sending her father and brother off with well wishes on their hunt.

All with a kind smile. The king stared at her from afar, atop his stallion.

Jaime allowed himself closer to Laisa, gauging his reactions. Robert had a face of anguish, exhaust, having looked upon the young woman. He forced his stallion to face North and rode through the arcade to spare himself what pity and guilt he may have been feeling.

_A fool._

Laisa wrapped up her send offs, appearing at ease now that Robert was gone, and she could see to it they came back unharmed. And with a blue rose if they could find one.

"Lady Laisa!"

A hand grappled at the gilded hilt, now with intent and tightly so.

She whipped around at the call, finding himself at the mercy of a huddle of children. All caked in dirt, huffing and smiling. Jaime counted twelve heads, boys and girls who looked no older than ten, who must have traveled in from Winter Town. _Orphans_, he thought.

"Are you really going to the South?" One girl asked.

Another boy whined, "You're leaving!"

"Are you coming back!"

Laisa knelt before the huddle, some children were on the verge of tears and others were struck with bouts of worry.

"Yes, I'll be accompanying my siblings and my father to King's Landing." she answered, her honesty was commendable. "I…I do hope I will be able to return. I will not promise; it would not be right to do so."

A young boy, could have been seven namedays, shoved passed his peers and stopped before her. A steady stream of tears had rolled down his dirty cheeks, sniffling, "You said we were going to play."

"I did." she said, "And we will."

Jaime spoke up. "My lady, isn't there more important matters to tend to then—"

Laisa stood, no kindness nor a smile. A stone-faced expression that hadn't shifted, nor the glare that remained narrowed.

"Ser Jaime, I intend to only say this once, so I do hope you are paying well enough attention." She proclaimed, "These children, the residence of Winter Town, are my people. Their matters are just as important as my own for I would not be a sound lady if I did not care, whether you believe them to be or not."

Laisa placed her hand atop the head of a boy, one who seemed to cling to her side as the children rallied behind her.

If Jaime thought smarter, he were to believe he was being challenged by the she-wolf and her band of misfits.

"Your master awaits you, Ser. I suggest you do not keep him waiting."

* * *

**LAISA**

"What's it like in King's Landing?"

"Are there really dragon skulls in the Red Keep?"

"Is Viera coming with you too?"

"Can we come visit you?"

Laisa had not understood her meaning to these children. They looked to her as a believer would their God, if that is all one knew. Her nobility came at a cost and here she was, spending moments such as these with common folk, orphaned children. A noblewoman who sought to bring comfort to her people, to bring peace and care, not through prayer or worship but with action. The hard-earned, attentive regard to the wellbeing of those whom were loyal and faithful to their protectors.

Where would any noble house be without their people.

Laisa lifted her head at the children's question, coming in abundance. She did not want to lie, nor did she want to admit the truth to their mundane line of questioning.

A Stark trait was straightforwardness, honesty. Children were not exempt, perhaps, they were the ones whom needed it the most.

"I do not know, sweetlings. And yes, Viera will be coming with me." Laisa replied. "No, I do not think you will come visit…King's Landing is not the safest place for children. I wouldn't want anything to happen to any of you, on the sake of visiting me."

The children seemed to quiet down, unable to find the zest to resume their play.

Laisa did not think the parting would be this difficult. To say goodbye, for what might constitute as forever.

"Will you return to the North, Lady Laisa?"

"One day." she answered quick. "I may be arranged to marry a Lord, one day as well. I may not ever return to Winterfell."

It seemed everything she had been speaking was wrong.

The children had become motionless, two concerned and the remainder were holding their breaths. It was a heartbreak a mother must have felt for abandoning her children, one she could not simply ignore. Was it terrible, inconsiderate even, to believe these children looked to her as the mature, maternal figure they had been searching for?

Once more, having to relive the agony of a parent being ripped from their lives.

"Come." she beckoned.

All the children had closed in, all being wrapped in the arms of Laisa. The ones who did not fit made do, encasing her in their little arms, small hands gripping tightly to her cloak.

Laisa rested her head atop the little boy whom was pressed firmly against her chest, sobbing a little quieter than the rest.

She cooed, "Hush…hush loves, no need to cry.."

Their little arms and hands tightened, few had fallen to their knees and others were struggling to stand on wobbling legs.

Laisa found comfort in the Old Gods, just as she did the New. She was fond of their ballads, as were the children, perhaps the Seven could sate their drear.

"_The Father's face is stern and strong; he sits and judges right from wrong._" Laisa sung, softly. "_He weighs our lives, the short and long, and loves the little children."_

The children sniffled and wept, pulling off of her one by one to wipe their tears. Her grail was to encaptivate them, to ensure their safety and that their lives will go on, regardless of her being in Winterfell. Laisa soothed them, wiping their dirty cheeks with her cloak, refusing to see either of her children cry any longer.

_My children_, she thought.

_"The Mother gives the gift of life, and watches over every wife. Her gentle smile ends all strife, and she loves her little children."_

The Godswood was still. Some small voices joined her in the verses, palming their tears, and kneeling before her.

"_The Warrior stands before the foe, protecting us where e'er we go. With sword and shield and spear and bow, he guards the little children._"

In the distance, Laisa found Ser Jaime gliding through the wood, looking disheveled and a bit red in the cheeks from the cold.

"Ser—"

"Something's happened."

Laisa thought the worst. She arose, the children parting from all around her as they followed her, "What… what's happened. Is it my father—was…was he hurt on the hunt—"

"No, my lady. Your little brother was found at the foot of the broken tower," Jaime informed wearily, "He fell."

_Bran._

Laisa was unsure of what to do. Her head became as blurred as her vision. her feet were firmly planted, and her legs did not want to move. She looked to the children around her, feeling their little hands pushing and their voices demanding so go. They pressed her forth until she finally found her footing and ran. Laisa cared not for the children, nor Ser Jaime. The only thought that was pulsating in her mind was of Bran, and if he were to live to see the morrow.

Her world became dark.

_I was supposed to protect them._

Laisa pushed past the crowd of commoners, frantically searching for Maester Luwin, her sisters, her mother, _anyone_. She caught sight of the astonished crowd corralling near Maester's Turret, Stark men becoming the barrier between concerned common folk and Bran.

She made way, a Stark soldier recognized her immediately and let her pass between the crevice of his outstretched arm and the common folk pushing against his person.

Bran was asleep, looking so small lying in a gurney hoisted by Jory and Myles. Maester Luwin was attending to Bran's needs plenty, and she was set to follow.

She had barely made it into the threshold before she was yanked backward by a rough hand, one that was attached to Rodrik.

"Let me go!"

"M'lady, let the Maester do this work."

Laisa fought, unknown to the tears that brimmed and had fallen. "No, no I need to be there for him! Please let me go! He needs me!"

_I failed him._

Rodrik took strong hold of her shoulders, pulling her back as gently as his strength would allow, "M'lady, calm yourself, we need t'keep strong for Bran."

Laisa felt herself give way, pulling her heels out from the muck to fall directly into Rodrik's embrace. Her legs nearly gave out from under her until Rodrik had pulled her aside, holding her to his chest as she cried for Bran, for Robb, for her father.

Rodrik hushed her, watching from afar at the vision of Catelyn and Sansa, huddled in the corner sobbing amongst themselves. Laisa hear their prayers, their pleas.

"It's not possible.." she sobbed, "Rodrik, tell me it isn't true—"

"All we can do now is pray, love." He consoled.

Laisa outwardly cursed the prayers. The Gods, Old and New, hadn't cared enough to watch over Bran and now here they stand, awaiting to hear of his condition. She bit her tongue. There was no sense in damning the idols. If her little brother may or may not live, it was out of mortal hands and was now up to them.

"Laisa! Mother!"

She ripped herself from Rodrik's hold, releasing his jerkin to find Arya, hand in hand with Rickon. Both children out of breath, coated in a sheen of sweat and tears.

"Be their strength, child." Rodrik spoke hoarsely, as thought his order could be heard above the commotion. "_They_ need you now_."_

* * *

"He…he looks so small."

Laisa was the second to overcome the distress of seeing Bran after Maester Luwin ordered he be put to bedrest as they awaited what came next. Her mother was at his bedside, exhausted of any strength she had left, and looked as if she were to collapse.

Laisa sat at Bran's bedside, reaching a gloved hand out to gently brush the leather against his soft cheek, hoping the gesture would awake him. It was a stupid thing to pour so much hope into.

"What does Maester Luwin say, mother.."

"He.." She began, composing herself soundly, "If Bran were to awaken…he would be crippled for the rest of his life.."

Another sweep of her fingers across Bran's cheek, over the smallest, insignificant scar that could barely be seen in order to remember something small. Something truly important.

_"Here, pup. Lift your drawing arm, keep your bow arm steady." Laisa knelt next to Bran, adjusting his stance, tapping her fingers under his bicep. "There we go. Now, find your target…take a deep breath."_

_Bran nodded, inhaling until his chest puffed._

_"When all the air leaves your lungs, let it loose."_

_ Bran let go of the bowstring, his arrow had shot forth and pierced the haybale. A quill highlighting his aim._

_He was full of excitement, bouncing about the courtyard with a bow in hand. Laisa couldn't contain the giggling erupting from her lips, kneeling to catch his little figure in her arms and squeeze._

_"I'm so proud of you."_

_Bran's smile hadn't faded, his little cheeks became pink from the cold. It was a sliver of blood that caught Laisa's attention. He must have drawn too far, scraped up his skin a tad._

_"Go grab another, try it again."_

Bran's giggling haunted her, as he lie unmoving and asleep. Laisa glanced to her mother, or what hollowed woman sat in that chair and disguised herself as such, waiting for her to speak. To moan. To scream. To lament. To do…_something_.

His unnamed direwolf pawed at the furs, whining and whimpering, to alert an unresponsive Bran. Laisa gently pet the pup, scooping him into her lap as he began to become playful in order to rouse his little master awake.

"When father first told us of the wolves, Bran was unsure of what to name his. He tried various titles but none had fit his character." Laisa chuckled, "The closest he had gotten to a name was 'hey you', all month long that is what we heard from the Godswood to the Keep. Over and over."

"And then, one day, I heard something.." she said, "'Summer!' I heard him shout, and I see this blur of white and gray, run across the courtyard, straight to him. The pup chased Bran, after some time I think the pup became agitated and pounced him to the ground. I hadn't seen him so happy, mother."

Laisa then caught onto her mistakes, again, seeing as Bran would never live the life of a Northern child. He would not be able to walk, to run, to ride, to climb ever again. Laisa let her head fall in embarrassment for having remind their mother of the ailments, pursing her lips tightly.

"He needed it, sweetling, more than we could ever understand." Catelyn spoke, in whispers, "That day, I let my son watch as his father beheaded a deserter. He won't be a boy forever, your father said. When they had returned, Bran was nowhere to be found."

The sweet summer child her brother had been for ten, long years had vanished into nothing. She founded that when she went to greet her brothers, her father in their return and Bran had walked off without saying a word, the pup in his clutches. Laisa had never hated a man of the Night's Watch, nor had she hated her father, but in that moment she despised them both. If not for the deserter, if not for her father's beliefs in sentences and swinging of swords, Bran may have not been subjected to such sights.

_he would not be a boy forever_.

"Must I leave, mother. I can stay—"

"No." Catelyn replied, promptly. "I will not allow you."

"Mother—"

Catelyn narrowed her watery gaze, gracing a smile though it was not strong nor genuine. "You are to ride to King's Landing with your father and your sisters. You shall not be reclused, love. I understand your devotion to your family, your siblings, but you will have to be there for Sansa. For Arya. Your brothers are not the only ones who need your guidance."

Laisa chuckled, "I don't believe my sisters want my guidance, mother, nor my protection. Arya carries herself as I did at her age. Sansa does it too, perhaps with a bit more grace."

"Laisa.." said Catelyn.

"I understand."

There was no further speak of remaining in Winterfell. Laisa would not abandon the expedition because of Bran, though the thought still fresh in her mind, she would abandon everything if it meant she had to see him one last time. To hear him wishing her farewell and good fortune.

_just once._

The door opened with a creak.

Jon crept into Bran's bedchamber, his head low. Laisa lit up when she saw him, picking herself up and walking right into his arms.

"What are you doing in here."

"Mother—"

Jon interjected, angrily. "I came to say goodbye to Bran."

"You've said it." Catelyn hissed.

Laisa stood between her mother and Jon, snapped, "Mother, do not do this, not over Bran."

Catelyn said nothing. She resumed her work on the beginning of a prayer wheel, one to hang over Bran's bed, to call unto the Gods to return her boy. Her baby boy. Laisa prayed, hoped for the same. Taking her angers and resentments out on Jon was not going to bring her son back, to awaken him from his sleep. She wanted to express this to her mother, however, what good would come to her now if she were to leave, defending her brother as she wanted.

"Not now." she plead in a whisper.

Jon approached the bedside, leaning over Bran's little figure. Laisa joined him to make her presence known, to let her mother know that she was not going to allow any more of this behavior. Not over Bran, not over any Stark child if she so helped it.

"I wish I could be here when you wake up." Jon said, softly, "I'm going North with Uncle Benjen, taking the black."

Laisa felt her stomach knotting at his admittance. She rest a gentle hand on Jon's back, unknowingly digging her nails into his jerkin, in some attempt to keep him.

_he would not be a boy forever_. Her father's words would not leave her be. Not with Jon, not with Bran, Robb nor Rickon. Laisa silently prayed to the Crone in hopes she could bestow some enlightenment, to gather insight to why her brothers should grow years beyond their age. Why they needed to be taken from her. Why.

"l know we always talked about seeing the Wall together, but you'll be able to come visit me at Castle Black when you're better."

Laisa gently squeezed Jon, managing a smile. "Perhaps we could all come to visit. If the Bear of Castle Black hasn't feasted on you, yet."

Jon chuckled. "I suppose when the time comes, I'll know my way around by then. To be a sworn Brother of the Night's Watch."

He leaned forward to kiss Bran's forehead, rousing his hair a bit.

"I want you to _leave_." Catelyn jeered.

Laisa and Jon looked to each other, her eyes full of apathy and apology as she watched him storm from Bran's bedchambers, leaving the door ajar.

"How dare you."

Catelyn's head snapped up at the accusation, facing Laisa's eyes whom were filled to the brim with fire.

"He is father's son, _our _brother and you dare throw him out for wanting to part from his family on loving terms." she snarled, "I do not care what you see him as. Bastard, half brother, a war induced mistake, he is _my _brother! I will not sit here and watch as you disrespect him because you are angry."

"You will understand when you have a Lord husband who loves you, just as your father loves me, and he comes home from a time of peril with a babe."

Laisa scoffed, "No. I will not hate the innocent babe brought into this world, I will not hate the child who tried and tried to become apart of my family, I will not hate raising another woman's child. Your quarrels are with father and you dare subject your bitterness unto an innocent babe, he had done no wrongdoing."

"Jon _Stark _is my little brother and I will not hear any more of this."

Laisa dismissed herself, finding her father in hanging his head low as he awaited his visit in the threshold. She would not take back her words, nor would she feel shame for facing her father, or condemn him for his mistake. _Jon is no mistake._

She pushed past her father, Viera in tow. It was painful to adhere to the last words spoken to her mother, but Laisa felt they needed to be said. As Northerners, they were remarked for their honesty. For her Lord father was appraised for his truth, why should she bite her tongue whilst her mother deprecated her brother.

Jon had done nothing but dream, practice, pray to be accepted as a legitimized son.

Laisa would not let him leave Winterfell, feeling as though he is another burden. "I will not let him believe that he has been reduced to nothing."

* * *

**ROBB**

Rickon had clung to Laisa the moment she told him she was leaving. As their youngest, he benefited least from Laisa's attention and teachings. He was too young to truly appreciate her, though Robb believed that was due to her spoiling. The youngest pup of the pack had been loved, adored, and most certainly recognized by his elder. And he was clinging to anything and everything he could get his hands on.

He whined and cried, similar to what Robb had done in times of separation...though Laisa always came back.

Rickon was refusing to let go, no matter what vows or promises she made, no matter what she could have offered. Rickon was stubborn. If it were up to him, he would cling to her during the ride to King's Landing and beyond if it meant she would not leave him.

Sometimes, Robb wondered if his little brother loved their mother as much as he did Laisa. And he, too, often wondered the same.

Eddard had to pry Rickon from Laisa's arms, watching as his little boy fought and cried for her. "I want Laisa! I want to go with her! Don't leave!" He was begging to be released.

From where he stood, he could feel the mass looks of disapproval for Rickon's behavior. Perhaps, the Southerners could survive the North, nothing but ice and hatred lived within them if they were sorely convinced a child would not act as he did. Rickon watched as his family was torn from him at six namedays, never knowing for certain if they were going to be seen again.

"I suppose this is goodbye."

Robb approached Half Moon, gently petting the stallion's snout as his lips searched his empty palm for sweets. _A spoiled thing_, Robb thought.

"I never thought I'd leave Winterfell, brother." she sighed, "I never thought I'd leave the North...they say it's warm in the South. I do not see a smooth adjustment."

He chuckled. "You adapt, Laisa. You would probably do it better than I. I'm sure the heat would melt us down to nothing."

Laisa dismounted and threw her arms around his figure, squeezing her as tightly as she could to feel him returning her affection. Robb could not allow himself to cry, to fall into the pit of emotion as he watched his sisters and his father depart from home. He often thought of this day, though he was not expecting it to be so soon. Robb thought to the days of childhood, one where he proclaimed Laisa would rule Winterfell at his side, to be his trusted adviser to keep him from any rash or unreasonable decisions for the good of their kingdom.

He tightened his hold, burying his nose into the crook of her neck. "I'm going to miss you."

"And I, you." Laisa whispered.

Robb and Laisa were exceptionally close. No one could deny it. From the moment of his birth until now, Laisa had been vivid in his memory. As a mother, a sister, a protector. She showed him the love their mother could not, due to her occupancy with Arya, then Bran, and Rickon followed soon after that. Laisa raised him, as she did Sansa. If he had his way, if he were Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, Laisa would not leave. She would be married to a Northernmen, one that was well within her leagues, and one that deserved her.

He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, enveloping her into his chest once more.

"I vow," Robb whispered, "If anyone comes to harm you, I will gladly lay my life down for yours."

It was a grand thing that Laisa could not see whom he was staring down. A gold head and a king were in his sights, and he would gladly wage war against the both of them if they were to be the reason for her misery.

"Robb, please, don't be silly." she murmured, "I will be all right."

He refused to believe such a thing.

Wolves were not welcomed in the South. Nor were they safe from the perils that came about in King's Landing. The Rat's Nest thrived, it must have been eagerly awaiting the arrivals of the Old Wolf and his pups.

"It's time."

Robb was reluctant to release her, slowly prying himself from her embrace to become of her smile. Something she had done often regardless if happiness was something she was lacking. "I love you, Laisa. I hope I get to see you again one day."

She leaned forth, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. "Don't forget us."

Robb held her at a distance by the shoulders, studying her features, as he did with Sansa and Arya. Though, Sansa was in a mood and was awaiting her supposed one true love whilst Arya continued to make silly faces, hoping that her jests would assist in her memory.

He kissed her forehead, allowing himself one last hug before he put a considerable amount of distance between himself and her.

"Laisa the Fierce shall never be forgotten."

Her smile formed into a grin, "I hope not."

Robb assisted her in mounting Half Moon, and out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Viera and Grey Wind, Nymeria too, nuzzled at each other's necks. They, too, knew they were to never see each other again.

He resisted looking to Laisa once more, knowing he might act childishly and cling to her skirts as he did when he was a boy. He remembered, faintly, as he clung to her leg wailing and begging she not leave him. Not once did she shake him off and leave him to wallow in his tears, she simply picked him up into her arms and carried him to her destination. She hadn't gone, far as he originally thought, but to the practice yards. Both ten and eight, Laisa carried him on her little hip and placed him on the same saddle atop its rack, the same place Rickon now sat upon, watching as his sister loosed arrows into haybales marked with mock targets.

Every time she loosed a quill and it landed near or into the bullseye, he would make a flurry of commotion.

The memory remained fresh in his mind as he relived what childhood he cherished little of. And now, all he wanted was that peace to return.

Without thinking, Robb cupped his hands round his mouth and howled. Another fond memory, how the eldest of Stark children, Jon, too, communicated to one another in their youth.

Grey Wind had mimicked his cry, sounding much louder than Robb could force.

He could hear a response in the distance. Four howls.

A fifth and sixth, followed._ Shaggydog and Summer._

It may have been ridiculous, childish, perhaps.

Arya had her head half way out the carriage, howling like the wild child that she was and laughing, too. Father happened upon the sound, though appeared to be shaking his head in disapproval, he was smiling. At least, that is what Robb presumed.

In the distance, he watched as Laisa reared her stallion to his hind legs, howling. Loudly and with pride.

Four Starks left home that day.

All Robb could pray for was their safe return.

* * *

I truly hope this makes up for the lack of consistent uploads!

I hope you all enjoyed it and don't forget to fav/follow/review! It helps me so much in the long run :)!

See you next time!


	4. The Perilous

...

* * *

"the shadows in this room are not mine to hide from"

— j.r.m.

* * *

**SANSA**

It had been but a fortnight on the King's Road, in that time Sansa came across many perversions being committed at the inn, crinkling her nose in disgust at the sights, the sounds. The king had forfeited their comfort to go gallivanting through the woods, intoxicated by bloodlust and Dornish wine, with a spear in his grubby palms. In this time, Sansa had gotten no closer to her betrothed. Her signs of interest came in the forms of small smiles and too long of glances in her direction. He was disinterested, or so she told. Sansa belittled herself plenty for Joffrey's lack of attention, there was nothing she could have done—right or wrong—it ended in Sansa being at fault.

It consumed her thoughts throughout the day, tightly gripping to Lady's leash as they strolled through the campsite.

"Do you think father would approve." Sansa asked, curtly, "Of Joffrey and I's marriage."

Laisa strolled beside her, Viera not bound by a leash and exploring the campsite as she pleased. This only made Sansa sharply tug on Lady's leash when she felt she was straying too far from her side.

Since the raising of the pups, they had grown far beyond what their masters expected. Lady, in comparison, was quite small. Nymeria was considered the middle sibling of the three—barely reaching the height of Arya's chest, whereas Lady hardly grew past Sansa's thigh. Viera, belonging to and the eldest of her siblings, had been able to nuzzle her snout just above Laisa's hip.

Viera came to nuzzle against Sansa, smiling small, as she pressed her palm between her large ears and scratched.

"Father listens to you, perhaps you could—"

"What is this truly about, sweetling, do you wish to marry Joffrey because you're doing your duty to your House or is it something more."

Sansa pursed her lips, anxiously nibbling.

Laisa sighed. "I know you're not going to listen to a word I am about to tell you, but I am going to speak it."

"Life is not like your stories or the songs, Sansa. It is not as simple or beautiful as a wedding, a bedding ceremony, birthing little princes and princesses, then being crowned queen once King Robert passes on." Laisa said, "I understand your grail is to sit beside your king, or your prince, and live in peace but father, mother, _I_, want you be married to someone who is going to cherish you and is kind and will love you."

"Joffrey loves me, and he is kind and he does cherish me."

They came upon the crimson and gold carriage, that housed the queen, her children, and her handmaids during the duration of their journey. Three handmaids, unknown by name, took their leisure. Two plaited and touched up each other's hair, giggling amongst themselves. Only it became louder, condescending when they happened upon Laisa and herself.

Sansa hung her head in embarrassment, knowing they must have heard her proclamation of Joffrey's unknown and potentially unrequited feelings.

"Don't mind them.." Laisa cooed.

"They're laughing at me how can I not _mind_ them." Sansa snapped, focusing her welling eyes onto the ground at her feet.

Laisa faced the women, not faltering to their jests and waited until their laughter ceased, looking more uncomfortable than Sansa anticipated. Her tongue clicked twice, Viera came barreling towards them snarling and yapping until the women scurried away, screaming at the tops of their lungs about a savage beast.

A monster.

"Viera, come." Laisa calmly beckoned, watching Viera trot back to her side and sit beside Lady. As thought she had not scared those girls, Viera resumed being her naturally cool, behaved self.

Sansa was aghast, "Why did you do that!"

"Would you rather I had done nothing?" Laisa retorted. "Allowed the queen's little birds to make their fun?"

Sansa averted her elder's words, sneering, "They could have been laughing at _you_. Gossip of a maiden caught with the Ser Jaime in her bedchambers has been buzzing around ever since we left."

"And do you believe it? The gossip?"

"Of course not—"

Laisa chuckled, "Then I suppose they were giggling at your griping, little sister."

Sansa walked forth, not paying much attention to where she was going until she smacked into a man, startling her. She took a hesitant step back, unable to tear her eyes from his.

"Pardon me, Ser—"

Laisa quietly called Viera to her side; Sansa tugged Lady back by her leash.

The man hadn't said a word. His gaze was fixed, intimidating, so much so that Sansa had dropped her chin to deter her attentions elsewhere. Sansa shrunk into Laisa's side, feeling her arm curling around her frame with Lady seated between them.

"Ser?" Laisa addressed, cautiously.

"Do I frighten you so much, girl."

Sansa whipped around at course voice that snuck up behind her. Now, wide-eyed and gripping to Lady's leash as tightly as she could while seeking Laisa's arm.

She didn't answer, neither had Laisa.

Sandor Clegane, the Hound, whichever name he was best known for had pressed past Viera who stood between them, barring teeth and warning him not to come closer.

"Or is it him there making you shake?" Sandor taunted, prodding the man's patience as though he expected a response. "He frightens me, too."

"Look at that face." He commented in disgust.

It seemed animosity and dread drove the man off. _Instead of words_, _longswords may have been their means of conversation_, Sansa thought.

Laisa tightened her arm around Sansa, leaning safely into her elder's side. "Why won't he speak for himself."

"He hasn't been very talkative." Sandor muttered, "Not since the Mad King ripped out his tongue with hot pinchers."

Sansa felt the grip on her figure constrict, glancing upward to find her elder's eyes hollowed and cold. Her lips parted as though she were to ask if she was all right.

"He speaks damn well with his sword though." Joffrey's voice sounded similar to a serenade. Sansa's spirits lifted at the mere sight of him, and she immediately ripped from Laisa's coddle to stand tall, independent in the presence of her prince.

Joffrey approached, sweetly smiling as he spoke. "Ser llyn Payne, the King's Justice."

She must have conveyed a bout of fright, unspoken alarm. Joffrey took notice in Sansa's features with a slight of worry, raising a gentle hand to tilt her chin up to better his look. Then, he looked over to Laisa, similarly examining her expressions.

"What is it, my lady? Does the Hound frighten you?"

Sansa turned her eyes downward, tugging Lady closer as though her sweet wolf would protect her as Viera did _her _master.

"Away with you, _dog_." Joffrey sneered, "You're scaring the ladies."

Sandor bowed, despite being disrespected as such and turned to take leave elsewhere. Sansa hadn't cared one bit; her head was in the clouds and her heart thumped wildly at his regard.

"Thank you, my prince. That was very noble of you." Laisa kindly thanked, curtsying in respect.

When Joffrey smiled; Sansa became blinded. "It is no trouble, my lady. I do not like to see my betrothed nor her kin in such distress."

His clear emeralds happened to fall to the ground, eyeing Viera as thought he was daunted by such an animal. She hadn't snapped nor growled, Viera seemed to be taking a liking to Joffrey until she trot forward to sniff at his hand.

Joffrey lurched backward in response. "I suppose this is the beast the handmaids were raving about."

"Forgive me, my prince, the queen's handmaids thought it humorous to mock Lady Sansa. Her enthusiasm regarding the betrothal seemed to…amuse them."

"They were not laughing at me, my prince." Sansa retorted, "They heard of Lady Laisa's interactions with Ser Jaime, as the rumor goes around."

Joffrey lifted a brow. "That's right. I overheard something of seclusive bedchambers and my uncle. How did he fare, my lady."

Laisa was void of any embarrassment whilst Sansa burned as brightly as her hair.

She smiled kindly, "He fared well, my prince. I thought it would do him well to offer my chambers for rest, for your father had him posted at my door throughout the night. I felt awful having him sacrifice his strength to guard me when it was your father he should have been protecting."

"Why should have he been guarding my father, my lady." Joffrey pressed.

Sansa glared in Laisa's direction, as though she were the one at fault for pursing this line of conversation.

Laisa, though, had not faltered. "The Kingsguard is _for _the king's protection, my prince. There is no use wasting their talents on a lady."

"I'll be sure to bring this up to my father. I see he extends his courtesies to the wrong people."

"That would be most kind of you, my prince."

Sansa was set aflame. Her cheeks felt hot, skin blooming a deep shade of rose. Her intentions of turning the shame unto Laisa had gone awry. Sansa had not done what she did out of malice; she did not want Joffrey to see her as some helpless pup who needed her elder sister to protect her from envious handmaids.

Joffrey returned his attention. "The sun is shining, my lady, it would be shameful to let a beautiful day go to waste."

"Would it please you to walk with me?"

Sansa nodded, further containing her excitement. "Of course, my prince."

"Laisa, would you mind taking Lady back to the kennels."

Sansa did not bother with waiting for her elder's response, for she held onto Joffrey's offered arm. She gazed shyly upon her prince, as though he decorated the sky with stars and hung the moon.

* * *

**JAIME**

Seven_ Hells_, he was bored.

Tyrion's departure for the Wall and Cersei's persistent avoidance allowed Jaime too much time wasted on his thoughts. He was not interested in accompanying the king on another hunt. The spearing of animals was not enough to sate his need to kill. He preferred his challenges over shows of unnecessary violence.

Jaime sat at the river, hidden beneath a ledge amongst washed up stones, polishing his blade taking in what little silence of his surroundings. It was a good deal away from the Inn, no throes of pleasure from whore after whore; children and their little games; the bothersome banter of his own men. The quiet was never his friend, though as of late he had been enjoying what it had to offer.

A Lannister alone in the world did not have the same ring to it.

"Viera!"

The voice shouted once more, becoming clearer and within distance. "Viera! Where have you gone!"

Jaime paid no mind, submerging a bloodied piece of cloth into the creek. He caught the glint of his reflection in the shimmering steel, recalling his youth. Battle worn by the age of six and ten, a dead dragon at his feet in a pool of his own blood. He expected a Targaryen to bleed chartreuse, the shades of wildfire. Alas, he painted the marble stones of the Great Hall a deep shade of red.

He was unsure of why he was riddled with such disappointment, then. Even now, he wondered if his blood contained power; touch the blood of the dragon, you are sure to get burned.

A cold touch to the cheek brought him from the Great Hall, back to the river where the waters rippled, and hot breath panted against his face.

Jaime turned, meeting the buttonlike, amber eyes of the black mass that sat before him.

He hadn't taken but a breath, with miniscule blades for teeth and an advantage, he remained still. Yet Jaime could feel his fingers clenching the hilt.

"Viera!"

The wolf yipped, alerting her master to her location.

Jaime remained silent and still, hoping the wolf would find her way back without issue and he would be able to resume his moments of solitude. He glanced between the beady eyes and the ledge above, hearing some rustling and another panting animal. It seemed in his breath of worry, Viera inched closer, prodding his cheek with her nose and lapping at the gloss of sweat on his skin.

"Viera, come!"

A whine became of her, pulling herself far from Jaime's side and retreated.

Laisa stood not ten paces from where he sat, holding a fashioned leather strap around another wolf and looking quite disheveled from her scouring. Her cheeks hinted red from the time spent in the sun.

"I apologize if she disturbed you Ser—" Laisa's eyes widened a bit, her mouth curling into a small smile, "Ser Jaime."

Jaime never thought he would tire of hearing his own name. He thought it to be a blessing someone addressed him as such, as his proper titles, thinly veiled with discourtesies or disgust. A sweet thing Laisa Stark was, he admitted, too sweet for his liking.

"If…if you do not mind me asking Ser, how come you are not on the hunt with the king?"

He snapped. "I do not attend the king at all hours of the day, my lady. I'm sure he's quite protected, stumbling drunk in the moors with a spear and a huddle of men at his beck and call."

Jaime allowed his head to tilt in her direction, a cool gaze set upon this woman who was unmoving, her head lowered. What he was told of this Lyanna Stark, a great deal of it coming from Robert's drunken stupors and Cersei's bickering over the dead as of late, Laisa Stark lacked affinity. She was not the fiery, strong-willed she-wolf that had taken the hearts of many. Laisa Stark was much like her father, something the North seemed to lack—cool, composed, and refined. The compassion must have been a Tully trait, or perhaps she mended something new for herself. A stupid thing that did not thrive for very long.

"I apologize if I've upset you, Ser.."

Laisa tugged on the leash, as she did with the scruff of Viera's neck as she turned away, cooing the animals and making way back up the steep ridge.

"Lady Stark!"

She pivoted at his call, watching as the wolves' ears perked as well.

Jaime beckoned her, setting aside a place for her to sit on the several stones at their disposal. Without question or concern, Laisa approached him once more and sat at the farthest end to allow much space between the two. The wolves lied closest to the water on her order, nuzzling against one another and lapping up some drink to sate themselves.

"You need not ask for forgiveness, Lady Stark." He muttered, "It is I who should apologize. I should not have responded to you in such a way."

"I suppose asking of the king and your guardship is the last thing on your mind, Ser."

_that it is…_ Jaime kept his words to himself, resuming his tending to the blade. He glanced in the way of Laisa, noticing her fascination with the weaponry between his legs.

"See something you like."

Laisa nod. "The swords of the North are not gilded with gold…nor are they so skinny."

"May I hold it."

Jaime had thought back to when her bastard brother attempted to teach her to wield his own, how she struggled to raise her arms and nearly tumbled to the snow from her inability to do it properly. He was not a man to extend his courtesies when it came to his sword, as it was a part of himself that he could not simply remove no matter who nor what tested it.

"After your atrocious performance, I don't believe I should allow you within ten paces of a blade."

She chuckled. "Aye. Perhaps ten paces is too close."

Jaime managed a grin, although it was not the least bit genuine, it seemed to please her. It became quiet between them. Laisa looked out into the distance, over the river and onward into the land as though she was expecting to see something emerge from its shadows. Jaime followed her line of sight, as though he too were expecting a person, or an animal to come leaping into the river. At least, that is what he told himself as he watched Laisa become so fixated on one rather large opening between the trees.

"Those children, the orphans in the north," Jaime said, "To what do they owe the pleasure of being accompanied by the Lady Stark of Winterfell."

"Children are the first victims of winter, Ser." she answered, flicking a stone across the river, "They have no one but each other. I gift necessities, my time and love, to the children when no one else would. Some of them have families, and I treat them no different from the ones who do not."

"And I'm sure if the price were right, someone could buy that love and devotion you bestow unto them in return for your heart on a pike."

Laisa smiled sadly. "Little birds are everywhere, even in the North…"

Jaime raised a brow. _Lord Varys had his ways of gathering knowledge from the farthest corners of the world_, he thought. As Jaime were to ask what she meant by her little quip, Laisa turned herself inward to face him, fixating her gaze as a look of amusement befell her.

He meant to ask for elaboration, but she voided all lines of questioning.

"I've been told by the commoners that the children seem happier, well-adjusted to their lives for I am what makes their day…bearable." she mused, managing a small smile, "And I am quite familiar with the comments…that my charity is unneeded, and they are a waste of time. To put my efforts into something much more meaningful.."

"It was those children who taught me that compassion is everlasting…growing up with no one, with nothing, and live through more than I ever would in my lifetime to remain…as they are. No qualms, no anger, no…anything, really."

Jaime could admit it was a beautiful thought. Perhaps if she had seen the world through another's eyes, gazed upon a bloody blade or the body of the dead, she would understand that kindness and compassion dies just as much, if not more, then men do.

The game did now allow for such royalties to remain.

"You must be thinking I sound childish. Naïve to the hardships that await beyond my snow-covered borders."

"Just a tad."

Laisa didn't seem offended by his insinuations. Jaime thought it strange. He may have not been the best conversationalist, the one that required words. He dipped the cloth back into the pool of water beneath his boot, squeezing out the remaining stains of blood.

She watched him, hints of elation in her eyes.

Jaime understood how alluring fine weaponry could be, he understood that well. He did not think his action could hurt, for the girl could hardly hold it up, what harm could she truly inflict.

"Here."

Jaime held out his sword, her eyes flicked to his, as though she were asking further permission. He dipped his head in her direction intending to sate her unease.

Laisa took hold of the hilt in both hands, holding it a great distance from her person. She was gentle. Carefully examining its intricacies, then adjusted the positions of her hands before jutting it forward, stabbing the space in front of her.

It was difficult to not find her amusing.

"Do you think you could teach me."

He looked upon her once more, finding that unwavering elation and allure that overcame her. Childlike excitement is how he could describe it. Jaime hadn't replied to her request, as he had many demanding responsibilities on his platter. A mere thought of another hour or however long, standing before the king's bedchambers while he went about his charges in the prices of whores, food and drink, and unpleasant disposals made him tense.

"What better mentor than the finest swordsman in all of Westeros to teach a little girl how to properly wield a sword."

What could one more hurt.

* * *

**LAISA**

"Laisa."

"Laisa, love, wake up."

The gentle shake of her shoulders and soft whispers had startled her, reaching for the hands that encased her shoulders to find herself staring up at Jory.

"What…what is it, what's happening?"

He sighed, "They found Arya."

Laisa shot up, disturbing Lady and Viera who slept at the foot of her bed. "Is she alright!? Where was she!"

"Hush." Jory whispered, "The king sent Lannister men to find her…they got to her first and brought her before his grace. Her wolf…she attacked the prince and they've set out to find her to—the king has requested your presence, m'lady."

"Arya, is she all right."

Jory nodded, "She's a bit shaken, m'lady, but she's fine."

She slipped out of bed, reaching for her slippers and cloak. Both Lady and Viera had followed her out of her room, down to the feast hall where Lannister men were piling out, corralled together as though their forces would frighten a her. Laisa pushed through them, Viera snarling at every man who stood in her way as Lady cowered just behind, tail between her legs and whimpering until her sister came to her aid.

Laisa presented herself before the king and queen, glancing to the supposedly wounded prince, all but clutching to his mother's side. _Jory said Nymeria attacked the prince…_ Laisa thought, from further inspections he was not missing a limb. How bad could the wound truly be.

"Your grace."

"I apologize to drag you from your bed, Lady Stark." said Robert, "We have been told the direwolves were in your care during the attack."

She nodded. "Yes. Viera and Lady were with me, scouring the woods for rabbits. I do not see how—"

"Sansa, come here darling."

Laisa hadn't thought such an address would cause her stomach to tighten. She watched at the sea of crimson and gold parted for her, Sansa stood before them almost unwilling to face any direction. Laisa followed her line of sight to Cersei, to Joffrey.

Robert leaned forth in his seat. "Tell us what happened, girl. Tell it all and tell it true. It is a great crime to lie to a king."

"I…I don't know." Sansa testified, her lips quivering, "I don't remember. I…I didn't see, everything happened so fast."

"Liar!" Arya shouted, throwing herself forward intending to pull on Sansa's hair until Eddard yanked her away, holding her still until she ceased her thrashing. "She's lying! She saw what really happened!"

"Arya!" Laisa snapped, "Enough!"

She knew her kin well enough to know when she fashioned lies to be truth. Sansa was never a good liar and this was proof of that. Initially, Laisa did not want to believe Sansa would dare put the welfare of her betrothed over her family, she couldn't have chosen him over Arya. _She couldn't have,_ Laisa thought, feeling the anger begin to flourish in her stomach.

"She's just as wild as that animal of hers." Cersei hissed, remaining composed. "She needs to be punished."

Robert faced his wife, bellowing, "What will you have me do? Whip her through the streets! Children fight, it's over."

"What of the direwolf." Cersei's glare hadn't left Laisa. "What of the savage beast that ravaged our son."

"There was no trace of the wolf, your grace. We scoured the area. It seemed to have run off."

Robert waved a hand, "No more of this. It's gone."

The emeralds of the queen's eyes fell from Laisa, unto Viera and Lady. "They have others."

Her sisters became uneasy. Arya had stood before Viera in attempt to protect her from the gaze of the Queen; Sansa seemed too afraid to move in fear of angering them further.

"Leave them be!" Arya barked, "They weren't there! Nymeria ran off!"

Laisa hadn't bit her tongue hard enough. "I wasn't aware royal status allowed for lies to be fact."

"I'm not lying, my lady!" Joffrey hollered, holding his wounded limb as proof. "She nearly ripped my arm off!"

She thought his execution was exquisite. It was fitting, rather. Lions enjoyed their spectacles, surely one would not see a wolf performing as wildly as Lannisters had done in the past.

Laisa rest a hand between Lady's ears, gently scratching whilst Viera nuzzled her snout into her hip. Viera's untameable behaviors exhibited itself to those who came too close to her master. Lannister men, cowering in the sight of wolves. It was a sight to behold.

"Nymeria protected her master, as would any dog trained well enough to do so." she retorted, "Tell me, your grace, would you punish one of your own men for protecting your life from an assailant. Noblemen or otherwise. Surely you know we would not be here if your son was no one."

"Careful, girl." Robert warned.

Laisa may have lost her tongue for disrespecting more than one royal member of House Baratheon. However, her confidence was solid, her demeanor was unchanging.

If it was Lyanna the king wanted, it was the true she-wolf of the north she would gladly bestow.

"Truth is what you praise my father for having, your grace. Why does truth suddenly void you when your son still draws breath for if Nymeria was set on him as the queen claims, I can assure you there would be none of him _left_."

Joffrey flinched at her emphasis, gripping to the offended limb and holding it close to his chest as though it were to fall victim to another direwolf 'attack'.

"Do not punish Sansa nor myself by killing our girls. Nymeria, the supposed savage beast is gone. Your son is safe and alive, let that be enough and we shall restrain our wolves if need be. Muzzles, leashes, kennels. They will not be allowed to roam free; they will be properly restrained and with only us."

Robert looked passed her, to her father whom stood just behind her. It must have been a silent conversation that had led to a mutual agreement for he met with Laisa once more.

"See to it soon, girl. If another one of my men, my son, or otherwise becomes victim to those beasts, they will not be granted their freedom."

"Yes, your grace."

Cersei fumed. She was nearly red in the face, snarling. "Robert, my sweet—"

"Enough! It is settled. I will hear no more of this."

To Laisa's right, Sansa was beaming with gratefulness and Arya clung to her in relief.

Though, Laisa allowed her emotions to run on a tangent when she faced Sansa, gripping her nightgown in a fist and yanking her forward to cause a stir. "And you."

"You will train them yourselves; you will feed them yourselves, and if they die, you will bury them yourselves." Laisa reiterated her father's instruction, seeing the horror flood in Sansa's eyes. "And if you ever lie like that again, little sister, I will see to it that you will kill her _yourself_. I will not put Viera's life on the line again for your insolence. Do you understand me."

Sansa was silently crying, a blur of tears streaming down her puffed cheeks.

Laisa let her go, unable to face Sansa after her performance. She thought it bordered treachery against her own family but Laisa would not let her anger judge Sansa's inaction.

"Jory, take them to their rooms." She pushed Lady to follow, watching her lick and nudge into Sansa's shaking hands as they were escorted back to the inn.

"If you ever threaten my sisters again, I will be glad to show you the true brutality of the wolf." Laisa snarled, Viera responded similarly as though the crowd was closing in on them, "She will protect me with her life and see to it she takes one, if not all of you with her if it comes to it."

A light chuckle scattered across the hall until Viera had silenced them with a gutteral sound that made the queen recoil, and her men drew their pikes in preparation to protect against her animosity.

"Sleep well, your grace."

Laisa sauntered from the hall, Viera trot freely ahead of her for what could be the last time as she took a deep breath to sate the nausea that overcame her. It truly did not take long before she heaved her supper into an empty stable. There was no explanation for what tenacity overcame her—towards the Queen, her sister, perhaps her father, too for allowing his daughter to threaten them as she pleased.

In result of her actions, wolves were truly no longer safe in the South.

"Laisa—"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" she plead profusely, coming to face her father through welled eyes, "I didn't—I hadn't meant to—"

"Shh…shh sweet girl, it's all right." Eddard cooed, pulling her into his embrace.

Laisa dug her fingers into the leather of his jerkin and cried. She had brushed not once, but twice, with death. There was certainty that she would not leave that hall without missing a few fingers, her hand, or possibly her tongue if she hadn't tried to bite it off, herself. She cursed herself for not thinking, for not respecting her King and Queen, even if they had been in the wrong. A life or two may have been spared this night but she may have not been so fortune when the time came.

"What...what did I do." She sobbed.

Eddard gently pet her hair down, squeezing her to him as tightly as his body would allow. "You protected your family, sweet girl. That is what you have done."

_No...no I didn't protect my family._ Laisa refused to believe arrogance protected Sansa, protected Arya, protected herself. If anything be true, Laisa had given the South more power. To give them better reason as to why the wolves of the north were not longer welcomed. Or safe, for that matter.

Looking through the haze of welling tears, a saddled horse and a man that towered the height of his steed led it through the darkness. She tugged on her father's clothes, alerting him of her discovery.

Once her tears had fallen, her vision cleared. There was a body slung across the saddle, a boy.

"The butcher's boy." Eddard bellowed, "You rode him down!"

It was the Hound leading his stallion with the body of a dead little boy, being paraded through the streets as though it was a victory to be proud of. Laisa stumbled back, her knees had given out beneath her at the sight of a dead child. She could not tear her eyes from his lifeless figure, swinging freely as the stallion carried him to Gods knows where for a improper burial.

"He ran." Sandor said, carelessly. "He didn't run very fast."

Her stomach churned again, Laisa found enough strength to keep herself upright before heaving further into the stables. No supper splattered to the muddied grounds.

"Laisa, Laisa, sweet girl." Eddard called to her but she was too focused on the horror that melded itself into her memory.

An innocent boy, a butcher's son, a commoner, dead at the orders of their queen. Even needless violence did not escape the innocent, for the nobles drank their fills and ate themselves gluttonous, committed and enacted in crimes that the Gods, Old and New, would find despicable.

Where was their sacrifice. Their hurt. Their loss.

"Father, promise me." She began, turning sharply on her heel, "Promise me this will not go unpunished."

"Laisa, you know I cannot..."

She shouted, "She killed him! A boy of ten, for what!"

"You made veiled threats against the queen, Laisa." Eddard reminded in hushed whispers, "She will not forgive this, you must behave yourself."

Her mind was a mess, morale and propriety no longer of her concern. "What veil."

Laisa dismissed herself before she said something that would result in her tongue being plucked from her mouth. Her shaking hands balled up at her sides, Viera bumped the top of her head into her fist but to no avail. Her nails cut deep into her palms and Viera licked what blood seeped from her wounds.

Cersei Lannister did not frighten her. She would not beat her into submission. The Lions of Lannister will cower in the stead of wolves if that would be the last thing Laisa would do.

_You cannot rule the seven kingdoms if you are not alive to do so._

* * *

And that wraps up chapter three! I feel like this took seventy years to write but I've been hitting writers block one after another and getting this out was a pain in the ass. *wink* there is new cover art if ya'll didn't notice. I've been editing and playing around with a few faces to put as Laisa and I came across Jessica Brown Findlay.

This chapter might be a little short because it's just a filler? I didn't wanna dwell too much on the ep. of the King's Road. As much as I hated Lady dying so early on, I had to bring her back and this won't be the last character I'll be resurrecting. Mostly minor presences, like Lady, it's small enough that it won't cause a discrepancy within the story itself!

The interaction between Sansa and Laisa kinda hurt my heart but I felt as thought it was necessary. And Laisa does not strike me as one to coddle her sisters if they decide to make such decisions, all while knowing what consequences could arise from it. Laisa just isn't gonna put up with Sansa's shit, to put it bluntly.

To answer, **Melmela**, I'm probably going to follow canon until...well I don't wanna give anything away lol...so yes I'll be following canon until a certain point then everything from then on will be drastically different from the show itself!

See you next time!


	5. The South

I'm just gonna have apologies be my opening headers from now until the end of time. I am SO sorry this chapter took nearly three weeks to post, I've been stuck in a creative rut. And I discovered Outlander so that did not help in the slightest. There will be consistent uploads after this chapter, I promise!

And to add fuel to the fire, you guys are about to read just how terrible I am at combat/dance scenes. I honestly don't know why but you know what it's hard so I'll leave it at that.

To shamelessly plug, I do have a tumblr (pennedbyophelia) in case anyone wants to harass me for not updating on time.

Enjoy!

* * *

"i am a wolf.

i will not be afraid."

— a.s.

* * *

**ARYA**

If she were told to sit here for one more minute, during the tortures these Southern women called styling, Arya would search for the nearest set of sheers and relieve herself of her hair. It was a comfort of pampering that Arya was not nor would ever become accustomed to.

And by the request of their Queen, a handmaiden was delivered to herself by the name of Wylla. It was odd having someone attend to your every whim.

She and Wylla, in the accompaniment of Laisa and her own maiden by a name she cared not to remember, were in the bathing room. The door left ajar at Arya's request so their conversation could continue.

"Have you seen the practice yard, Laisa? It's three times the size of the one in Winterfell, we could practice together!"

Arya pushed away Wylla's impatient hands, leaning far backward into her stool to see Laisa, relaxing in the bath whilst her maiden massaged overly scented oils and lye soap through her hair. By the look on her face, she seemed to be at bliss.

Arya sighed, "Laisa!"

"I heard you, pup," she replied, "And we can, if we're quiet. I'm sure if the men found us lurking in the practice yards, wielding practice swords and bows, they'll stroke."

The handmaids giggled at her quip, despite it not being all that humorous: it was just true.

Arya straightened her back, allowing Wylla to complete her torture ritual. She allowed her chin to drift to her chest, Wylla tugged her head up by the plait she intended to pin to the bun at the crown of her head. They shared a glare through the looking glass; a woman not much older than she having quite the standoff with a child.

Their exchange went on for some time until Laisa had removed herself from her bath, cloaked in a veil-thin robe and watched as Wylla's expression softened once her elder set food into her chambers.

Arya feigned ignorance, glancing ever so often through the looking glass in hopes to see another distorted vision. Wylla presented herself with smiles and a kindness that could prove itself sharper than any bit of steel.

Even she had her concerns when entering the Red Keep, though, Arya hadn't suspected for so many to arise within such short notice.

"Must you wear such a thing," Arya huffed, tugging on the thin sleeves of her top to show Laisa what proper articles of clothing looked like. Especially for practice yards. The handmaids choice of gown would not serve as well as a tunic and breeches would. "We are to present ourselves before knights, soldiers, archers, and you're wearing _that_?"

I hadn't believed it when Sansa explained how much Laisa was beginning to fancy her new Southern clothes.

"Arya, I make do just fine," Laisa remarked, raising her arms to allow her maid to properly lace her corset.

She huffed, again. "All right. I suppose it wouldn't be too rash to call for your valiant Ser Jaime. Would he mind coming to your rescue once that thing you're wearing expels all the air from your lungs and you faint."

Laisa's cheeks burned brightly. Now, their handmaids had something truly humorous to crow at.

"Perhaps we should bring Viera. I don't think she's adjusting to well to the kennels."

Arya chuckled, "As the king says, _wolves are not pets_." She hardly mimicked Robert's gruff babble, but Laisa thought it quite amusing and it bid her nothing to see her elder smile. By her wits and improper quips, of course.

Once Wylla finished, she set her talents aside to assist Laisa in her state of dress.

"Your wolves?" asked Laisa's maiden, "I hear on the Kingsroad a big, black beast came for the likeness of the Queen's maidens."

"And the prince. I hear he became a cripple, lost his hand in a fight with the same beast in the wood."

Arya cackled.

"Illa, the big, black beast is the same girl whom you've been walking in the gardens since my arrival."

At this admission, the handmaids seemed to have been drained of color, leaving paled, gaping sheets posing as girls. _Illa, that's her name_. "Nymeria made the prince no cripple. And if he was, I'm sure he would be even less useless than he would be, with two hands and a sword he cannot use."

Laisa sighed deeply, "Forgive my sister, she seems to have forgotten her lessons and I may have to send her back to septa Mordane for a revisit."

A hairbrush was her weapon of choice, Arya pointed it right at Laisa and scolded. "Don't send me back to that old hag, I will not survive it!"

"Then behave." said Laisa, gently. She mouthed a silent _for me_.

With great reluctance, Arya dropped the hairbrush and raised her palms in surrender. She turned herself forward, facing Laisa and Illa, donning a pale blue gown that looked thinner than what should be worn in the north. Her shoulders were exposed, as was her chest, and due to this intense heat that damned King's Landing, Arya did not blame her for wanting her body to breathe. Even she was breaking a sweat, just sitting there in her vanity stool. The windows were wide open, the chamber door had been cracked open to allow a breeze to pass through but to no avail.

A hot breath of air wafted through her bedchamber. Arya palmed the sweat glossing on her forehead. _Seven hells. We must be in the middle of at least one._

"Doesn't your sister look beautiful, my lady."

Arya snorted, "I'm no lady. My sister always looks beautiful."

Laisa giggled, a bit, "Oh sweetling.."

"Would you like me to style your hair, my lady." Wylla offered. Arya immediately shook her head violently, whilst Wylla's back was turned.

Laisa bit her lip, stifling a giggle. "No, thank you Wylla. I will do it myself."

Her halo of hair nearly fell forth when she curtsied and excused herself from Laisa's bedchamber, leaving Illa, Laisa, and herself, erupting into a fit of laughter.

"I fear Wylla is…quite intense when she incorporates Southern styles into the heads of women." Illa chuckled, seating Laisa at the vanity, shooing Arya off the stool, "I understand you Northern girls are…quite simplistic."

Arya shrugged. "That was never my interest."

"Of course it wasn't." Illa muttered.

Arya watched from the bedside, fixating on Illa's gentle hands. She carefully brushed from root to tip, and over again, sectioning off wet clumps of hair into a braided bun similar to Arya, without the tassels behind her ears.

"There we are." Illa complimented, eagerly clapping her hands together. "Now, you said to the practice yard, my lady?"

Arya leaped between the maid and Laisa, scowling. "Just Laisa and I."

"We want to make a day of it." Laisa suggested, kindly, "Just us sisters. Isn't that right, Arya."

"Yup. Just us."

Illa frowned a little, "All right. I'll see to it your…pet is escorted to the yard, my lady."

"Thank you."

Once Illa had left, Arya rushed to the door to slam and bolt it closed. "I don't like them."

"Arya, you're not fond of anyone you do not know." said Laisa, fanning herself, "Gods, why is it so damn hot here."

"We're in hell." _I__sn't it obvious._

* * *

Arya had a steady hand resting on Needle, brushing her fingers over the metalwork for every solider that passed her by. She may be small and still in training, but with a good eye and a large target, Arya could poke holes in men twice or thrice her size. Having been practicing consistently with Syrio, Arya was confident she could take one, perhaps two men down if they were slow.

With Viera the Monster at her side, Arya felt unstoppable.

Though, with every pass of her fingers through her thick black fur, she could only be reminded of Nymeria and how much she missed her dear wolf.

If only she was spared.

_If only she went for his throat instead of his arm._

"Arya, slow down!" Laisa called, picking up her skirts and her pace to rest against the stone walls, heaving and panting.

Arya giggled. "Come, it's not too much farther!"

She impatiently waited for Laisa to regain her composure before dashing off again, pushing and shoving ladies and lords alike then stumbled through an arcade, running into a balcony that overlooked the Narrow Sea. Just below, Arya's eyes went wide. Soldiers of various cloaks, battled with dummies, within themselves in sparring sessions. Her fingers found the hilt to Needle, with every strike and humming of steel, Arya briefly closed her eyes and imagined herself in the middle of the duel.

Swift, defensive thrusts, blocking the largest of longswords with her skinny Needle. As quiet as a shadow, as light as feathers.

She fluttered her eyes open, standing on her tip toes to peer over the wall.

"Look at them, Laisa." she whispered, "Father would have a fit if we were to go down there."

"Then, we best not get caught."

Arya skipped down the stony steps to the practice yards, avoiding as many sparring practices as she could, hoping she caused no disruption. Her eyes searched and searched for the archery pit, barrels of arrows, longbows, and rows upon rows of wood targets. She crouched, creeping past by means of Viera in hopes none of the soldiers had taken notice of the monstrous wolf wandering the keep.

"Halt!"

She gripped Viera's fur, Arya tugged her into the alcove beneath the steps where many of their weapons were laid to rest, behind a locked guard gate. Arya used Viera's coloring to her advantage, to hide within the shadows.

"State your business here."

_So much for not getting caught._ Arya thought.

Her little head peeked out from the alcove, just enough to see Laisa speaking to the guard who initiated the command. Their conversation was drowned out by the crash of the waves, Arya wasn't sure what it was they could have been talking about until Laisa began to laugh. Too sweetly, too high.

Arya caught the subtle smile meant for her, allowing for a moment or more to collect what they could and find a nice, quiet spot to practice their trade.

Arya kept low to the stones, using Viera as her shield of sort until she discovered the archer's pit. It was a distance, half a courtyard away, and her knees were aching from the trek. As soon as she was under the cover of the arcade, she picked up a longbow and a quiver, taking arrows by the handful.

She peered out from the alcove once more, Laisa approached her after waving off the huddle of soldiers that seemed to have abandoned their practices to ogle and swoon at her backside. Arya rolled her eyes. _Seven hells._

"Gods, what did you do to them?"

Laisa overlooked her shoulder, examining the few men who acted as though they hadn't seen a woman before.

She turned back, shrugging. "I suppose they aren't privy to the fact that I'm a Stark. Or maybe they don't care."

"Doubt it." Arya snorted.

Another good look taken at those men, they were not gold cloaks, nor were they wearing the colors of House Baratheon. A sea of crimson and gold, seemed fitting.

Before she could identify whom they could have belonged to, Arya was rushed down the flight of stairs. Viera and Laisa in tow, both girls giggling as they ran about the port, trying not to draw attention to themselves but with the four-legged shadow that towered over little Arya, it was hard not to be of attention.

They traveled as far as the port would allow, far enough from servants and guards that would probably report their play to the queen. But Arya was not afraid. She would be quite pleased to be face-to-face with the woman who wanted to slay their wolves over her mewling son.

She may have not been prepared to do much about it, but, it wouldn't stop her from trying.

"Do you think, if Nymeria would have stayed, you would have been able to save her, too?"

Laisa seemed taken aback by her sudden question.

And, with a heavy heart, Arya took her elder's expression to mean. Laisa was never for many words, especially when they made her as sad as they did.

She took Laisa's silence as her answer, and with grace. Perhaps septa Mordane was rubbing off on her after all.

* * *

Arya heavily sighed as she watched her fourth arrow narrowly miss one of the few peaches Laisa neatly lined across a wood plank.

"You're thinking too hard."

"_You're thinking too hard._" Arya mocked under her breath, nocking another arrow. "_You_ think too little."

She drew, holding the quill to her cheek and narrowed her eye to the middle most peach. The arrow grazed it, again, instead pierced shimmering blue waters and sunk.

A gentle breeze wafted through the port; Arya tucked away the annoying strays behind her ears. She pulled her fifth arrow, nocking it, then handed it over to Laisa.

"Damn thing is probably cursed." she muttered.

Laisa laughed, "Giving up so soon?"

"It's not my day, I suppose."

The bow was taken, moving from Laisa's line of fire to sit aside Viera.

Arya lost herself in thought of Nymeria once again. She wondered if she was alive, braving the wilderness to which she was forced back to. Or if Nymeria hated her for sending her away, throwing rocks at her until she finally ran off. Arya convinced herself it was the moors, whatever threatening things awaited her—man or beast—or the King's Justice, neither outcome was in Arya's favor.

She fluttered her eyes shut, praying to the Old Gods to watch over Nymeria.

And hope that, one day, they would meet again.

A loud splash pulled Arya from her thoughts, whipping her head in its direction to find one of the peaches missing and three less arrows in the quiver.

"Luck comes in threes."

Arya snorted, "Does it now."

She wound more black fur around her fingers, accidentally tugging a touch too hard. Arya leapt a couple paces in the air when Viera snarled right in her face. A warning she was gracious for. The direwolf stood tall, strolling to Laisa's side where she plopped down at her feet and basked.

Laisa nocked and drew, tilting the arrowhead a bit higher and loosed it into a second peach.

"It's the wind, pup."

Pointing up, to the sails of various ships and flagpoles, sails and banners alike were flapping in the winds. Arya screeched, "How was I supposed to know that! There isn't no wind in the north.."

"Did you just tell me there is no _wind_ in the north." Laisa repeated, her eyes wide with confusion. Mock concern, too.

"I—" Her puffed cheeks became heated; the rest of her face flushed with color, "You know what I meant!"

"Do I, little sister?" Laisa jested, stifling her amused giggles, "You _quite_ boldly admitted that there was no wind in the north."

Arya's flush deepened, pushing herself to her feet and charged with all her might, "Shut up!"

Laisa sidestepped. Arya nearly fell face first into the shallow waters if she hadn't halted as quickly as she did. Her elder laughed at her attempts, only to fuel her further with the intention to punish her the only way sisters knew how.

Having chased Laisa around the port, dodging oncoming patrons and few guards who cared not for their presence. She endured her childish taunts and swift feet, angering Arya further when she couldn't get within arm's reach. Laisa then back peddled to their dock, teasing the little wolf. What seemed to have been a seamless plan, devised in seconds, became the reason why Arya dashed as fast as her legs would allow. All of her weight went into a single shove, causing Laisa to stumble over Viera and hit the water with the loudest splash.

And an even louder scream.

One minute, Arya was reveling in her victories and the next, she was pulled beneath the water. Her mistake was keeping too close to the brink of the dock.

"Laisa!" Arya shouted, sounding almost as whiney as Sansa, "I'm gonna drown you!"

"If you can catch me!"

Laisa couldn't escape being chased by the little wrath named Arya Stark. The water wore heavy below the ankle, causing them to dredge through, splashing one another as their only means of protection. Arya successfully pulled Laisa's leg out from under her, a neat little trick of the body Syrio had taught her, now proving fruitful. She, again, celebrated her victories too soon and before Arya knew, her head was below water, looking through the still waters in the port and the emptiness of the sea that lied just beyond.

Where the shallow waters ended, both girls fell into the open sea but hadn't ceased their play. At the very least enjoying the one relief that came from the wretched three-year-summer. They allowed themselves to drift in the warmth of the Narrow Sea, hand in hand so neither would be swept away by the waves.

* * *

**EDDARD**

"They seem to be adjusting well, m'lord."

Adjusting was not the first word to come to Eddard's mind when thinking of his daughters. He watched from the cliffs overhead, desperately in need of separation from the meetings of the small council. What they believed counted as simple conversation of assassinating a girl not much older than his own, and he was expected to agree with the command without question. To think a king as grand as Robert was, cowered in fear of a little girl, half a world away.

"Aye." Eddard muttered, "They seem to be doing just that."

"I overheard choice words from Lannister men that a young woman accompanied by a wolf had graced them during their practices some time ago." Jory's strain on what choice words that were better left unsaid did not go unnoticed. He motioned forth, beside himself to continue what more he had to report. "If I do say so myself it's difficult to keep track of your daughters, m'lord. Lady Laisa and Arya seem to scour the Keep without seeking protection and Lady Sansa—"

"Sansa is in well enough hands with her septa. Arya and Laisa, on the other hand.."

Jory chuckled, "As I said, m'lord, it's difficult to keep track of your daughters."

Eddard felt compelled to agree. "She needs you now more than ever; I hate to acknowledge how naïve my little girl is, Jory, but the South is no place for us. No place for her."

"She, m'lord?"

His captain was never a good liar, that is something he knew for fact. Eddard clapped his hand onto Jory's shoulder, gripping to tension. Eddard chose action over word, gazing over the perch and down to the docks with the intention of having Jory's eye follow. It was no conspiracy, he had no need to say her name now that Jory hung his head like a scolded child, awaiting punishment.

"I see the way you look at her."

Jory fell to his knee. As though bending was the act to plead for forgiveness. "M'lord, I—"

"Rise, you fool." He chortled, helping Jory to his feet. "Had you not been my captain, perhaps I would have thought the match to be a deserving one. There is no man I trust more with her life than you, a loyal and honorable one at that."

"There is nothing to lose sleep over. I am her guard and I serve her as I, you."

Eddard nodded, "I hadn't suspected anything less."

Breathing life into the rumors was the least of his concerns. It was council he required from the only man who knew his Laisa as well as himself. It required much thought on borrowed time. Eddard hadn't discussed potential arrangements for his eldest daughter, he had spent the last nineteen years keeping Laisa to himself, to her family, and the walls of Winterfell. Today, during a meeting of the small council, one that Robert blessed with his presence inquired of an arrangement between Joffrey and his Laisa. As Robert attempted to seduce him with the idea, Eddard felt relief that Sansa was no longer in the running for marriage. All at once, he lost and gained a daughter in Robert's offer. He were to ask if accepting neither option was viable, and Robert so kindly reminded him of how he hid his daughters in the snow and how they would not be girls for much longer. Yammering on of vitality and fertility, adjoining the Wolf and the Stag as what he should have done with Lyanna.

Robert's mouth opened, but Cersei's bitterness flowed out.

"I mean no offence, m'lord, but of what importance is speaking on this…matter."

Eddard adjusted his composure by habit, clearing his throat. "I stress that this conversation stays between us, Jory. I do not trust the council of the king to offer judgement."

"Of course."

"Our king has offered marriage between Laisa and Prince Joffrey, he believes the match is suitable for Laisa is already a woman and heirs would need to be provided. Until I…decide, this proposal does not exist."

Jory seemed to be laughing under his breath. He didn't correct the man; it was humorous to pair the spoiled boy prince to a woman that was far beyond his reach. Though, Robert needed an answer and Eddard wanted a man or two to support his decision.

"M'lord, if I may," He began, turning forth to overlook the perch, "Do you believe this is a ruse, to establish some sort of claim over Laisa. The women I run into, scurrying from the king's bedchambers all have a certain look to them—dark of hair, blue-eyed."

_Seven Hells, Robert._ Eddard refused to believe he was as doleful as he claimed, over a woman he hardly knew and now subjecting girls of similar semblance to his fantasies and perversions. Upon hearing this, perhaps he should thank the Mother for watching over Laisa.

"If it is not, I do not see Laisa…agreeing to such terms. Perchance she will survive because it is her duty, but she will not be content."

Eddard muttered, "Are we ever."

"I'd like to believe so."

As did he. Eddard wanted better for them. They may not marry into the royal family; they may not rule over a castle as esteemed as the Red Keep, but Eddard will not be swayed by the likes of the king he serves. As Hand, he will enact upon his own judgement, for the better of the Realm, deciding whether or not his daughters marry into house Baratheon became his priority.

"If I were to agree," Eddard began, remaining stone-faced through his questioning, "Would you stay here, to protect her from any and all harm."

Loyalties to House Stark meant more than himself and Catelyn. If sparing Jory meant Laisa was protected, by a loyal man of the North in a castle that crawled with lions above all else.

"Yes, m'lord. I will vow to her, as I have to you. To remain by her side until my end."

Eddard found comfort in knowing she would be safe, by the same man that pledged his life and sword to him. Who better than to saddle with such a task.

"You're a good lad, Jory. And I owe you many thanks for your service, your loyalty—"

"Arya! Careful!"

Jory gripped Eddard by his jerkin, yanking him as far backward as the narrow walkway would allow. A stray arrow shot into the air, lousily piercing the stones some paces from their feet. Had they been any closer…

Eddard peered. Arya had fell to her knees, tilting her head up as high as she could then screamed, "I'm sorry!"

"I swear to the Mother!" Laisa shouted, "Give me that! You could have speared father with your shite aim!"

"_My_ shit aim!?"

And just like that, they chased each other again, bickering and shouting like untamed children. Vulgarities, threats, around and around they went ducking around servants, slipping past guards and tackling one another every which way back into the water.

If only their mother could see them now.

* * *

**LAISA**

Feasts were quite the spectacle in King's Landing.

Southerners seemed to celebrate anything and everything where the sun shone brighter, the food and Dornish wine was in high abundance; such a luxury that could be afforded.

Laisa sipped from her goblet, placing a hand over Sansa's as she lifted it to her lips. "One cup, and no more."

She moved her lips as though she willed an insult to come hurdling, but instead she was made silent by the presence of the prince. Sansa smiled then, as though the boy and she were the only people whom had presence in the dining patio.

"My lady," He greeted with a shallow bow, "May I ask for a dance."

It was not Sansa the prince's hand was offered to.

Laisa looked about the audience, their conversation had died down to whispers. She felt the king and queen cast their piercing gaze upon her. King Robert tilted his crown forward, his goblet as well, as though he were encouraging her to pursue; as for the queen, she seemed slighted by their interactions. Sansa, on the other hand, looked as though she had been pierced through the heart by her own sister. She had little time to explain and no knowledge as to why he would not ask his betrothed, first.

What were she to do? Deny him before his mother and father and make a complete mockery out of his offer? Laisa may have not been educated thoroughly of the game the nobles play amongst themselves, but she would not waste her very first move by outright making a fool of herself, of the prince.

She brought her attention back to the prince, his bony little hand jutted out for her to accept. "I…I would be honored, my prince."

Laisa pushed her seat back, rounding the table to be hand in hand with Joffrey. It took much restrain not to giggle at the stature of the boy. She was a head taller, heeled boots only assisted in what many must have thought as a mockery.

Before them, it was the king who was chortling to himself, hoarsely whispering to Ser Barristan a quip or two, followed by bellowing laughter. Prince Joffrey remained vigilant despite such cruelty. He led their dance, slow, pacing himself to the tune of the violas and flutes.

It almost saddened her that a man of his grace's stature would belittle his son so openly.

"How is your arm, my prince."

Joffrey's eyes widened, "Oh...oh this? It's quite alright now, my lady."

Her smile was her mask, her shield, one that protected her from such situations as this were it was expected of a lady to be happy, to be gracious, in the presence of the prince, no less. "That's good to hear, my prince."

"I thank you for your concern. I am truly grateful."

Laisa was spun out, slowly, their fingers clasped within one another as they moved about the floor. It hadn't struck her that other dancers had cleared in order to provide room, or perhaps it was to bestow their undivided attention to the couple at hand. The movements of the steps felt awkward. She had a longer stride, one that she had to shorten due to Joffrey's stature and inability to go much longer. She ignored the ache in her knees and danced on, though her mind was elsewhere.

"My lady, I hear from my father that there is a potential proposal between us."

She could feel Sansa's eyes burrowing into her backside. Laisa hoped she couldn't hear him, over the chittering of the guests. "Forgive me, my prince, I was not aware of such proposition."

The prince spoke on and on of this proposal; the nobles were sure enough to keep their whispers amongst themselves fear their tongues be relieved from their mouths by Ser Ilyn; Sansa was all but throwing daggers in her direction and Arya was behaving, though not enough that she nearly sent Sansa back to the keep with her handmaid at her hip.

Laisa continued to observe, catching but a clip of the prince and his one-sided conversation.

"It...it would be a pleasure to be your wife, my prince, but Lady Sansa could be a better one than I. She would make a wonderful princess, and an even better queen."

Joffrey only smiled. "I do not doubt that, my lady."

"I only hoped I would have been...notified of this consideration." Laisa kindly said, "I would have had a proper response."

"How do you mean, proper response?"

Her body became stiff once she felt his little hand at the small of her back. Joffrey led the step, it was not as inviting or graceful, rather he was presenting an aura of dominance; intending force movement from her, pushing and pulling her weight through the balance and not minding how inadvertently rough he was being. Laisa thought if she were to look away, to pry from his hold, he would throw a rather convincing fit. One that rivaled his performance on the Kingsroad. Alas, she allowed him to lead the dance as he pleased. Her smile, one genuine, now faded into a show of force.

"I...meant that I would have a better response to such proposal other than blabbering as I am now."

He chuckled, "No, it is quite all right, my lady. I hadn't known of this proposition, either. Not until the start of the feast and my father asked of me to become acquainted with you, if your father accepts that is."

"If it please you, my prince," Laisa thought to tread lightly on the subject. She did not want to disappoint, nor did she want to accept a marriage between herself and the Baratheon prince. "What of Lady Sansa if my father does accept?"

Joffrey shrugged a shoulder. "I suppose she will be married off to another."

_I do not hope it comes to that._ Laisa gazed upon Sansa once more with an apology; Sansa was having none of it. Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears and Arya seemed to have been talking some sense, if it had done her any good at all.

"Does the happiness of your siblings prevail your own, my lady?"

Laisa nod, "Yes, my prince, without question."

Another twirl, one that required Laisa to duck beneath Joffrey's arm and return to his front, to the same restrictive hold. She could hear the guffaw of the king, the giggling of the guests from all corners. Were they so bold as to mock their prince, right before him and his mother. Laisa did commend the queen for protecting her son so fiercely, as any mother would. She ordered an animal dead for a nibble; what would she do to a room of people ridiculing her son.

"Get ya hands off her, boy!" The king shouted, laughing as loud and hearty as he did when he was consumed by drink. "Making a fool of yourself 'n' the girl, come! Bugger off, son!"

Joffrey, by some grace of the Mother, remained composed. He steeply bowed, raising her knuckles to his wormy lips and kissed. "Thank you for this dance, my lady."

"The pleasure is mine, my prince."

It seemed once the prince had departed, slowly the previous guests returned to the floor to dance, to drink, and merrily sing to their hearts content. The queen angrily removed herself from the Robert's side, retiring into the alcove to find her son.

Laisa wanted to do more, but she was not daft enough to come between the lioness and her cub.

Whence she returned to her table, Sansa had barely breathed in her direction before storming off without another word. "Sansa—" Laisa called, near chasing after her until she was gently pulled back by the hand at her wrist.

"Let her go, m'lady, she'll be alright."

She allowed Jory to guide her back, now only able to watch as Sansa's shadow disappeared in a corridor of the keep and then, gone. "She must hate me."

"She's a young girl, in love, m'lady. She's bound to get jealous here 'n' there." Jory chuckled, "Like someone else I know."

Laisa punched his side, but a tap, that had Jory keeling over in laughter. "Aye. You."

She turned back, watching an empty corridor now, hoping that Sansa would come to her senses and speak to her. It was unlikely. Sansa had barely begun to share more than three words to her not long after the incident with the wolves and now, Laisa was beginning to think they would no longer speak until death parted them. Or perhaps, until death parted one of them. That thought gave Laisa a right chill and she faced away, towards the burning torches and the loudness that was brought forth by the festivities. Laisa thought to be thankful at least one of her sisters were enjoying themselves.

She picked up her goblet, swallowing what sweet wine was left. Laisa hastily snatched the pitcher, pouring her fill. Wine sated the nerves, or so many of her men had told. Though, they never admitted to how much at the time.

"Easy, easy, m'lady. We don't want you to stumble drunk to your chambers."

Laisa raised the goblet to her lips and drank, greedily. She hadn't taken but a breath between gulps, a little trick Theon had taught her, till the red wine had dripped down her chin. Instead of reaching for the pitcher, Laisa set her goblet down and was handed a napkin by her septa with a twinge of disappointment. Assuming it was her behavior and her interests swirled at the bottom of her cup.

"The prince, he spoke of a betrothal between him and myself. Had my father received word of a changed mind or was he trying to rouse me."

Jory looked hesitant to speak. He glanced away from her, and sure enough she followed. Whence his eyes fell on her father, Laisa gripped him by the arm and pulled him into an isolated balcony, lit only by moonlight and a single torch from the corridor. The warm glow gave them enough light and the thick stone walls gave them privacy.

"Your father didn't want anyone but us to know—"

"A tad too late for that don't you think." Laisa retorted, "Speak."

He sighed in defeat. Jory leaned against the balcony wall, muttering, "Aye. The king proposed you marry his eldest son, something of needing heirs and soon, and what better that you're already...a woman. S'pose he didn't want to wait for Sansa to come of age."

Laisa, though sated of her questioning, felt there was more he needed to add. Jory then became deathly still, facing the sea and overlooking the heights, rigid in all sense of the word.

"Jory, what is it."

"I.." His hesitation was always something that bothered her. It only existed when she were around, or she were prying into things she knew she shouldn't. "I don't think he wants to marry you off to his son for the benefit of heirs, m'lady."

It was a high offense to accuse a king, of anything really, and what Jory was speaking of might as well have fallen under the same laws.

"The way he looks at you, dancing with the prince he was focused on you. Your father saw it, I saw it. The man may be a drunken lecher but he was—"

Laisa was unsure why she wasn't surprised by this. Was Lyanna's ghost tormenting him from beyond her crypt or was the man desperate for reconciliation, to relive what memory served him well and brought him happiness. Or perhaps it would not only drive the queen mad, but he would be able to live vicariously through his own son, her ghost would now be permanently tied to the Red Keep.

She did not think of the king to be so cruel, then again, he rebelled against a dynasty and killed every last dragon for her. All for naught.

"Forgive me, m'lady, I shouldn't have troubled you with such suspicions."

"No...thank you for telling me."

Laisa overlooked the Narrow Sea, praying to the Mother for guidance, mercy. One could only hope there be a day where King Robert laid his burdens and self loathe to rest. _one could only hope, indeed._ Laisa thought, twisting the silver rings on her thumb.

"That's...that is not all, m'lady." Jory murmured suddenly. "Your father...he's become privy."

She hadn't meant to giggle. Laisa couldn't know the fear he must have felt flood his being when queried about her infatuations and the positions it could put him in. "Forgive me, Jory, but my father has always known."

Jory blinked.

"I was...four and ten. It was late in the evening, I was practicing with Robb and Jon, you and Ser Rodrik were overlooking our progress. I hit the bullseye, took about six tries but I did it and I remember screaming, 'I did it...I did it'." Laisa had fallen victim to another smile, a light blush washing over her pale cheeks, "And I leapt into your arms and you swung me around, telling me how proud of me you were."

"Father was up on the balcony, watching over us as he normally did and I looked up at him...thinking he would have been just as disapproving as he was the first night he found us together, in the dead of night but he wasn't. My father smiled at me, and I smiled back, and I just remember asking myself why he looked so sad."

Laisa tilted her head back, to meet his eyes and merely brush her fingertips over his cheek. She grinned. "He's always known, I'm afraid."

"M'lady—"

The wine had taken its toll, her persistent thoughts began to expel, cup by cup, and her restraint followed suit. Laisa pushed up on her tip toes to press a light kiss to his cheek and retreat. Had she stayed, Laisa would have been dishonored by the morning only with the wine and her childish infatuations to blame.

"Goodnight, Jory."

Laisa took her leave, following the corridors back to the Tower of the Hand. The night breeze was warm, warmer than she was used to; the smell of the sea and the sting of salt in her eyes; the skies clear of billows of clouds, hailing snow and rain.

Born of the winters herself, it didn't feel like home.

Once she cleared the maze of the keep, one she felt as though she wandered for hours, the bridge to the tower was thirty some paces away and a figure lurking in the shadows barred her from approaching.

Laisa didn't think twice about it, she sought the comfort of her bedchambers and pushed forth with no caution.

"Tell me, girl, what is it about you that seems to enthrall men by the masses."

_I should have allowed Jory to escort me._

"Ser Jaime," Laisa greeted with a slight curtsy, "Forgive me, I don't know what you mean."

Jaime emerged from the darkness of the alcove, feigning his amusement. "First the king, your father's captain, I'm sure good old Ned wasn't too pleased to hear of that one."

She bit her tongue.

"I've heard quite the word of a young girl with a wolf, thrice as large as any hound, wandering about the practice grounds." Jaime mused, "And what I've heard from these men...well, I don't suppose you're familiar with such savageries."

"Am I to be offended or frightened, Ser." Laisa unintentionally nipped.

"Neither, my lady. I only bring it to your attention because your father's captain surely must've said something to you, back there. If memory serves me right, he is a good man and I would be a travesty for him to lose his life defending your honor."

Laisa took his words to threat but remained still. "Yes, I suppose that would be a callous thing for him to do."

"I spoke to them, my lady. I do not condone my men to speak such things of a highborn woman as yourself. To outright question your honor is a despicable thing."

"Did the king catch word of these...comments." she murmured, letting her chin fall. Laisa was not exposed to the savageries of men, part of her wanted to pry to know what they had said of her; her ignorance thought it would be crude to subject herself to such perversions.

"No."

Laisa lifted her head, her brows knit weakly in confusion. Had his reason for awaiting her arrival have anything to do with their disrespect? She took a hesitant step forward, the warmth of the torches cast on his face as she drew closer. He seemed...insulted by her insinuation.

"Isn't kindness what you yammer on about." Jaime sneered, "A Lannister always pays his debts and I owed you for what you had done for me in Winterfell. Now, I owe you nothing."

He brushed past her, the clamoring of his armor echoing through the hollowed halls of the keep.

_Gratitude. That is what he wanted._

"Ser Jaime!" she called out, "Thank you."

* * *

AND *drumroll* there it is! Don't know how to feel about this ending, I had something totally different in mind but here it is!

To answer **KingofTruands**: Thank you so much! I really appreciate this, I've had such a struggle compromising between both book and show but I'm probably going to go more off of the books (while I not-too-casually reread them). And to answer, Laisa is 19, so she's 2 years older than Robb :)

I hope you guys enjoyed and I'm so sorry for the long wait!

See you next time!


	6. The Iron Underneath

YEP. A week late, so sorry about another late upload! I'm actually trying to write an additional 4-5 chapters for every 1 that I post, so I have enough content to keep on posting for the weeks to come but it's not working out too great! And I've been...delving into way too many fics as of late, and am inspired to create another story...even though I have quite the workload already. I love torturing myself.

My brain doesn't like to work overtime for some reason but the story will go on!

Enjoy!

* * *

"you came in and suddenly every part of me is at war."

—n.m.

* * *

**ROBERT**

The Gods condemned him, and he was beginning to believe, to truly believe, he deserved it. He was unsure how far or how close he could get by offering marriage between his son and Laisa Stark. It was a farce, the desperate acts made by a desperate man, in efforts to draw Lyanna back to him. His fists curled; darkened eyes narrowed to the emptiness of the Great Hall as he lounged in the throne he was awarded, for a rebellion that he lost.

_She will not be subjected to your torment, Robert._ _Your ploy to engage her to your son, to keep her within arm's reach, I will not allow it._

Robert lingered over Ned's sharp words_. _

_My daughter is named Laisa._

There was no doubt about that. Robert felt inclined to address her as anything but when she wore the face of his dead beloved, his greed and anger grew unsteady just thinking of her. It was in the way she smiled, how her eyes lit up at the slightest of sounds, and her laugh…that damned laugh. Robert thoughtfully wondered if he had ever heard Lyanna laugh, if he bothered to remember her smile, yet when he was faced with Laisa Stark, he was rushed upon by a wave of memory. A living, breathing, painstaking reminder of what he had lost.

Or, perhaps, what he never _had_.

He spoke of adjoining Houses between the Stag and Wolf. To think if Lyanna had been spared and they were wed, would she and the Seven Kingdoms be enough to fill the gaping hole of need that manifested within himself.

Would he have been sated then?

Robert blinked and suddenly the walls of the Great Hall collapsed. He was no longer sitting in all his tainted glory on the Iron Throne, nor wearing his antlers of gold. It was the bitter scent of sea salt and the fragrance of the lavish flora, the gardens overlooking the sea that awoke his senses.

"Your grace, are you well?"

A gentle hand rested on his shoulder, gripping lightly to alert him of his position, unsteadily trekking through the walkways. Robert straightened himself, ignoring the strain on his back from the paunch that nearly protruded from his tunic and belt.

It was not _kingly _of him to be in a tranced state, nor being made a fool of by his blunders.

Robert was unaware of who it was, attending to his side and ensuring he was in good health. Once he had met the eyes of a Stark, he was unsure of why she was within arm's reach of his person.

"I can call for Maester Pycelle, your grace—"

"That decrepit old man." Robert snorted, "No need to take him from his important matters, my lady, I'm certain my wife keeps him quite busy."

At that, Laisa Stark laughed.

He was enraptured by the sound, the grace and beauty of it all. Robert composed himself and remained cordial for what good it had done him.

"Forgive me, your grace, that was not…appropriate of me." Despite her request for forgiveness, she was still smiling.

"Laugh, it is the demand of your king."

Laisa hadn't seemed troubled by his words. She laughed, no longer containing the happiness he longed to see once more. It was her being that brought him back to the days of his rebellion, to the Trident where his hammer met the breastplate of the three-headed dragon. Robert remembered the scents of blood and shit, the body of the last Targaryen at his feet.

Lyanna would be dead shortly thereafter. It mattered not how many times he had told himself the tale, it always ended the same. He found himself growing more repulsed each time he recited the histories.

Once her laughter had ceased, Robert resumed his self-torment.

"My father has informed me of your proposal between Prince Joffrey and myself, your grace." Laisa disclosed, wearing some look of pity. "And…that he respectfully declined.

He wasn't the slightest pleased with Ned's decision. Perhaps he should have reminded him kings get what they want, with and without permissions. "Yes. It was a fault of my own, my lady."

"I am grateful for the match, your grace, but Lady Sansa…she's fit better for the prince. A better match than I could ever be."

_Lady Sansa is well above his station and you. Either of you are hardly within the same realm of desirability as my pitiful son._ Robert silenced his unruly thoughts and assisted in seating Laisa under the canopies, overlooking the sea.

Several pitchers of wine at his disposal; sweets and platters of delicacies for her.

"Has your father proposed any well-endowed matches."

Laisa shook her head, nibbling a piece of cheese. "No, your grace. I presume there are no…suitors that please my father. I don't suspect he wishes I marry someone who is…well quite a bit younger than I. And to someone of such a high stature."

He laughed, loud and hard. "High stature, is that what he calls it? Don't all noblewomen desire to be a princess; a queen at one time or another."

"Not I, your grace."

Laisa nipped at fireplumbs, drawing her gaze into the distance, "It is not something that becomes of me. A responsibility that voids me. I would rather be a Lady of a fine kingdom than be queen of all seven and have no authority."

"Authority? Is that what you seek, my lady, to rule over where you are allowed to?"

"Yes."

Their eyes locked for a moment. Her gaze, challenging and as solid as steel; Robert squinted ever so slightly and was cursed with a disfigured perception. He immediately turned forward, facing the horizon and paid more mind to the gulls hawking above. It was laughable, the Gods must have been doing just that. It was the sounds of the waves crashing against the stones of the Red Keep that convinced him even the elements were taking pleasure in his misery.

Robert refreshed his goblet and took a hearty drink to gorge his needs.

"What was she like, your grace."

His fists curled beneath the table. The Gods were testing his diligence, too. "And who might this _she _be, my lady."

Laisa smiled. "Lyanna Stark."

Robert flinched at the sound of her name being passed through Laisa's lips. How could she so easily speak of her, so impassively as though her semblance hadn't caused a world of heartache—for both himself, and Ned.

"My father spoke of her quite often when I was little. I could see how much it pained him to see one of his daughters remind him so much of her. He tried to hide it. He was never very good at it…he would have this solemn look in his eye, every time he looked at me." she noted confidently, raising her cup to her lips, "Just like you are now, your grace."

What was he to say. The vision of his Lyanna worsened over the years, he had no proper recollection of their time spent together. Robert forced himself to manifest what he believed to be their life long before she was taken from him. These invocations of memories he had no longer, Robert sought the pitcher and gulped several cups. The wine dulled his senses; made his mind soft. Perhaps, it could provide answers to the questions Lady Stark had of his late betrothed.

He needn't ask for patience or time, Laisa awaited his words and hadn't troubled him further.

"She was…" Robert muttered, "She was the one thing I loved in this world."

It was this sharp moment of clarity, one muddled by the several cups of Dornish reds and a girl who sought the truth. His truth. There was no doubt she would be disappointed by what he had to say, only a fool would take his veracity with heart and ask nothing more of him.

Robert, then, became oblivious to who it was he was speaking to.

"I suppose what my father speaks of you is true."

To proclaim himself king, to enact a slight of rage to put fear into those who disrespected their monarch, in the face of the woman the Northerners called the Fierce.

It mattered not what something is called, but something that is, and he believed with all his being that she lived to her title.

Robert brooded over her words; a scowl forming across his puffed, reddened face.

"My father feared for me; did you know this." Laisa accosted. She remained even, keeping what remained of her propriety for _his _sake. "My and my sister's departure from Winterfell to accompany him, to ride to King's Landing which may be our indefinite home until the three of us are courted with proper suitors."

"Of all the innumerable contingencies he truly had to fear, the one element that had him praying to the Mother nightly, was _you_."

He expected nothing less. Ned was never too savvy with his words nor was he interested in a battle within the same stone walls. Robert respected him enough to put on a fine act in order to perform his duties when he knew the old wolf resented him. There was no ill-will, either man remained cordial to avoid a tension that would never be resolved. As Laisa put it, an indefinite home until his daughters were wed and Gods knows how long it would be before the wild one and the eldest would be matched.

Robert unknowingly thanked the Gods for blessing him with Myrcella, a sweet and obedient thing that was spared of her mothers' acrimony. He was unsure what he would have done if any of his children turned out as lawless as Ned's youngest daughter; as daunting as the woman before him.

"As you can see," Robert chuckled, dryly, pouring himself another cup, "You've nothing to fear, my lady."

"If I may speak freely, your grace."

He waved his goblet to relinquish permission.

Laisa turned inward, once again becoming the victim of her cold gaze. "The man, the _king, _who so desperately seeks his lost love and would do more than tear down a dynasty, perhaps burn the Seven Kingdoms, kill every man, woman and child if necessary, all so she could return to him."

"My likeness, it frightens you." she mused, "It seems we both have much to fear."

"A likeness is where it ends."

Robert intended to slight her, to offend her despite permitting her foulness, and perhaps shock her into submitting a proper tone for it was her king she addressed. His Lyanna and Ned's daughter were not akin, she was a great beauty with tenacity, who would not speak as absurdly as Laisa was now. If anything he knew of Lyanna be true, it was her docile nature. This woman, highborn or otherwise, no woman would put the fear of the Seven into him. He would not allow it.

He was king, to who did he owe the honor of being feared.

"Yes, I suppose it does." Laisa thoughtlessly picked at the lemon cakes and wedges of melon on her platter. "It seems I do not possess Lyanna's wolf's blood, so I've been told."

"Wolf's blood." Robert repeated, boasting another wheezing laugh. "Another northern term."

It was the look she laid upon him that made him lower his goblet. There was an unnerving silence between them, there were no gulls squawking in the skies, no waves breaking against the jagged shores, not as much as light conversation from the guests occupying the several canopies along the aisles of the gardens.

He gruffed, "Wolf got your tongue, girl."

Perhaps the drink muddled his senses at present. It never affected his sight first; it was his mouth.

"Yes. The wolf's blood, it.." Laisa murmured, a hinting smirk played on her lips. "It is what differed Lyanna from the ample, demure women of the south. "

Robert masked his disbelief. He was familiar with the passive women; he made the eight in his youth and he couldn't be bothered to remember their names or how many he took during his youth; to the many he took _now_. It was a quality that voided him for what he sought was between their legs—not between their ears.

"Eager women, those who seek to comfort and please their king by the only means they know."

"Is that who you believed Lyanna to be, your grace."

He became still. A part of him ignited at the slights towards Lyanna, a disrespect upon him was as sharp as needlepoint; to dishonor her memory was a pain he had yet to experience. Robert growled, "If you intend to keep your tongue once this conversation is through, you best watch your words."

Laisa lulled her head to the side, cupping her cheek. "You truly thought her to be a lady, your grace. Perhaps my father can enlighten you of the true, purest nature of Lyanna and remind you that I am no different."

"Answer me this, your grace, had Lyanna lived were you prepared to be disheartened and disrespected by her true natures, would you have discarded her too if she were nothing as you imagined."

"You dare speak to your king—"

Laisa picked herself up, dusting off her skirts and sliding the chair back beneath the table. She dismissed herself, speaking one last gripe before disappearing into the alcoves.

"Your rebellion made you immortal, your grace, best not squander your legacy by moping over a woman you never understood and condemning another for your sins."

* * *

**LAISA**

"If it does not offend, my lady, you seem…distressed this evening."

"I'm a fool, a great and fierce fool." Laisa muttered.

Illa mused, "You needn't punish yourself, my lady. How many people can freely boast about how they berated their king and live to tell the tale?"

"It's not a victory I am proud of."

She curled her legs beneath her, comforting her seat upon the windowsill, looking through the metal lattice. As of late, all Laisa felt she could do was roam the keep with Arya and gaze from the tower, to ease what was left of her disposition that rendered her irritable.

Freedom knew its bounds in the south. _We succumb to our cages at one time or another._

"My lady, are you sure you're all right?"

Laisa thought it theatrical to speak as though she felt herself slipping away. It neared three weeks into their stay, the south had yet to drain her of all life. "Yes, I'm lost in thought is all."

_Perhaps if I stage my death, flee back to the North, I could avoid a beheading._

"You Northerners truly have your heads buried in the snow, don't you." Illa teased.

"Aye. I suppose we do."

Illa became a considerable confidante, her only companion within the walls of the Red Keep. It never voided her that she may be under the queen's thumb. Perhaps the first rule of court was to always suspect if there were eyes were they shouldn't be. Who would question a sweet, young girl of high birth whose position is to change linen and clothe, brush and plait her lady's hair.

No better a creature to persuade and manipulate into doing one's bidding.

Had the queen believed she could do the same to her?

Laisa questioned what poisoned the wine in the south, however much of the red delicacy they consumed, it made many a man and woman delusional.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, my lady."

"No, thank you." She replied, "You may be dismissed."

Illa curtsied, then departed her chambers to leave Laisa to wallow in her self-pity. This behavior was unlike her, to be confrontational to the wrong people, to have a knack for disrespect. She convinced herself it was necessary to remain as such to protect herself from what stones may have been unturned. Laisa cursed herself for misplacing the condemnation—many years she lived, mourning the same spiel of how the dead was laid to rest and yet here she was, looming over Lyanna Stark as though she nor her father, or perhaps the king, too hadn't been burdened enough.

The booming knock at her chamber door caused her to flinch. There was no address. Viera roused from her slumber to approach the door with caution, sniffing the air. Laisa waited for some signal—a growl, a bark, anything. When no noise emanated from her pet, Laisa picked herself up off the sill to open her door and be rushed upon by a little body, arms flung around her waist and a head pressed hard into her abdomen. Those little hands that clung to her fabrics, scarred from dozens of scratches.

"Arya?" Gods, she was covered from head to toe in dirt and grime, "What is the meaning of this? Why are you all dirty—"

"Forgive me, m'lady, Lady Arya wanted to see you before we delivered 'er to yer father." Tomard, one of Eddard's guards, took up the threshold of her chambers. Harwin was his accompaniment, guarding the hall

"By the Mother," Laisa swore, "What has she done now?"

Arya picked her head up, screaming, "I haven't done anything!"

She silenced her sister by pressing her head back into her stomach, muffling her wild mouth for her own safety.

"She was found at the city gates, said she just came from the dungeons, found her way out through the sewers. The goldcloaks were giving her a rough time, m'lady." Harwin answered, looking awfully apprehensive for standing watch in the corridor. "We should take her to him, I'd rather not leave your father waitin'."

Laisa understood, prying her little hands off her bodice, gently pushing her in the direction of Tomard. "Go. I'll join you shortly."

Arya's reluctance to leave made her all the more worrisome. She encouraged her forth once more, assuring her with a softened smile.

Tomard left at Arya's side; Harwin remained.

"Where is Sansa, m'lady."

"In the gardens, I presume." Laisa murmured, "Harwin, is something else the matter?"

He sighed deeply, entering her chambers then closed the door soundly behind him. "I intend not to, m'lady, but when we were called to retrieve Lady Arya, she squabbled on—speaking of men who seeks your father's death for reasons that seem to have voided the young Lady."

Laisa felt her stomach wind, tighter and tighter like the taut strings of a bow. Men, unknown in appearance or name, threatened her father within the belly of the Red Keep. Arya, having been the one to stumble upon such knowledge by the luck of chasing tomcats through the castle, concerned her. She met eyes with Harwin, the steel and ice melded into one, harrowing vision that startled him.

"Find Jory, I will retrieve Sansa." said Laisa.

"M'lady, I will accompany you," Harwin protested, respectfully, "If what Arya says be true, it is no longer safe for a Stark to wander through the Red Keep."

_When has it ever been safe._

Laisa trusted the words of loyal men. She had done enough foolishness for one lifetime, best not anger anyone further in her attempts to reclaim her sister. With a snap of her fingers, Viera was at her side before exiting her chambers. Harwin flanking her and at the ready for what may or may not come.

The Wolf's Blood so many claimed Laisa not to have boiled in her veins. Whomever had the gall to threaten her father, the Hand, the loyal man that is Eddard Stark—the realm will be displeased to find a woman of noble birth scouring the city for these people who dared call themselves men.

* * *

Neither had spoken since the night of the feast, the night Prince Joffrey asked for Laisa's hand in dance. Sansa convinced herself thusly that Laisa had taken her one true love away. She wondered where Sansa had gotten her sense of self-entitlement, to allow any senses of her own to be muddled by betrothals and a love she convinced herself existed. Laisa loved her sister, endlessly and without question, but she wondered if she or their mother hadn't done enough for her.

It was in moments like this, in moments made on the Kingsroad, Laisa must remind herself that Sansa is a but a child.

"Wait here, Harwin…I need you to guard the alcove." Laisa thought it safe to keep him at a distance, to prevent Sansa from fleeing. "And whatever you hear, do not approach."

"Yes, m'lady."

Laisa pushed herself forth, carefully coming upon Sansa and her ladies, speaking amongst themselves. Once she were in her sister's purview, the chittering laughter and conversation fell into silence. They greeted her, but their respect for her beyond it seemed to have voided them.

"I would like a word with my sister." Laisa ensured her tone was not taken as request. These southern women hadn't a knack for true suitability, they all answered to the same queen and believed she would protect them against the wrath of the wild Stark girl. And her monster, too. "Alone."

Neither woman had a word to protest, they all arose from their seats, curtsied low and fled.

Sansa hadn't bothered to raise her chin, nor stop the needlepoint in her hands. She, as well as her maids, stitched the same sigil into their canvases.

"You've yet to marry the little prince and you have already abandoned our sigil." Laisa had meant for that to be a simple jest, nothing more.

Sansa scowled, "Is that what you think of me. First, you attract the prince, and he forgets of me, and you dare question if I have abandoned my loyalty to my family."

"Do you truly believe I _intended _to attract him, that even wanted to."

She remained quiet, puncturing fabric and adding another detail to the rearing, golden…lion.

Laisa took the seat beside her, overlooking her work with awe. "Sweetling, you've got the wrong sigil. The prince is a Baratheon, a stag."

Though a momentary notice, a mistake that need be corrected, Sansa took it with much more meaning and shouted. "He's a lion Golden haired, and beautiful, strong and fierce and _nothing _like his drunken fool of a father."

"And it was his drunken fool of a father that proposed the marriage between myself and the prince." Laisa informed, "I suppose you didn't know that, did you."

"Of course I did." Sansa harshly snapped. It was a bit silly of her to lie knowing how terrible she was at it and to whom she was trying to lie to.

Laisa gentle placed her hand over Sansa's, feeling her become stuff beneath her touch. "Father declined, as did I. To make a mockery of my sister the way the king did, he is lucky I have not found the courage to take his tongue for trying to renege on a good arrangement."

Sansa's faced morphed into an undeniable sense of horror.

"I understand you may be angry with me still, to be…made fool of at a feast and I deeply apologize for it. All of it." Laisa said, "But you must come with me. Something has happened, and father may be in danger."

"Father?" Sansa echoed, dropping her canvas to the stones, "What has happened to father, is he all right—"

"Yes, he is but he was threatened. I do not know the specifics, I need you to come with me, I do not want you by yourself here."

Sansa blinked, her brow creasing in confusion. Neither had the time to go over every impeccable detail of Arya's findings, her concern was ensuring her sister's safety. It was paramount in such dire situations. She took Sansa by the hand, forcing her out of her seat to rejoin Harwin.

It was the light panic in Sansa's voice that worried her most, "Why? Laisa, what is the meaning of this—"

"I will explain everything once we are with father, I promise."

There was no further struggle or protest. As they delved deeper into the keep, Harwin assured them of their safety but with every pass or mention of guards or ladies and lords that happened to pass them by, Laisa could feel their ponderous eyes burning into their backs. Perhaps, she allowed her suspicions to best her or was she taking Arya's narrative too gravely.

_No. These are no suspicions nor would Arya devise something like this._

A doubtful thought shaken away by force. She kept Sansa close, Harwin fell back just a bit to almost secure her between them as they pushed through the bare corridors. The trek to the Tower of the Hand felt longer, the distance seemed to grow by twenty paces.

And every watchful eye had landed upon them with such interest, Laisa loosened her hold and took Sansa's arm within hers. The entrance of the Tower was just before them. They were not concealed under the black of night nor were they careful about their sudden rush to the Tower. It was a fault of her own, Harwin did as his lady commanded. She should have been smarter.

Once they passed the threshold of the Tower, Laisa sent Sansa up the spiral steps first with their wolves at her heels.

"Find Jory, Harwin. Bring him to my father's solar immediately."

He nod, before setting out. "Yes, m'lady."

Laisa gathered her skirts once more, chasing after Sansa and the wolves to find the door to her father's solar closed. Tomard stood watch just outside.

"I've told your father of your arrival, m'lady."

"Thank you." She said quickly, pushing the door open to allow themselves entrance. Tomard shut the door behind them, awaiting for the arrival of Jory and Harwin.

The sternness of Eddard Stark cut through her like sharpened steel and flesh. "I take it Arya has told you."

"Aye, she did." Eddard muttered, "You needn't worry, loves. Mummers is all they were."

"Mummers." Laisa repeated with that same sternness, "Father, your life is threatened, and you say that they're _mummers_."

It wasn't disbelief that shocked Laisa into silence, it was his dismissiveness. To truly believe that it were men of troupes, wandering the halls of the dungeons speaking such atrocities and to reduce their worry to an overexaggerated story. Her father wasn't a fool, he was hard-headed and would dismiss the slights of any man (or woman) willing to cut him down given the chance.

Laisa held a now trembling Sansa in her arms, Arya seemed to gravitate in her direction and pressed her cheek against her abdomen once more. Her scarred and lanky arms wrapping easily around both herself and Sansa.

She could not ignore this. Laisa wouldn't allow him to ignore it, for Gods sake, he was threatened! Did the words of his own children, their worry, and their concern not mean a damn thing to the man?

"Father, with respect," She bit, "Have you forgotten where it is we are."

Eddard's face softened, a hand reached to the bridge of his nose to pinch, "Laisa…"

"Wolves are not welcomed in the south. And here we are, packed in your solar like rats. These men, whomever they may be, mummers, spies, traitors, they _hid _in the darkness of the dungeons to speak of such things. To speak of you, to threaten y_ou_."

"And if these men found her, what do you think they would have done to her." Eddard asked calmly, laying down his quill.

Laisa, though, was unable to contain her rigidness as her hand tightened against Arya's head. She hadn't an answer, if Arya had been found, Gods knows what they would have done to her.

The door to his solar was pounded on, twice, and three Stark guardsmen piled in and hurriedly shut the door. "M'lord. M'ladies."

"There is no threat against my life, sweet girl." Eddard's false assurances was the pitch to her flaming anger, "I apologize on behalf of my daughters who have gathered you here, there is nothing to fret over."

"You may not take this threat seriously, father, but I will." She growled, a hint of that wolf's blood vigor, evident in her voice. She held Sansa close, her worry rippled through Laisa's chest. "Harwin, and Jory, I want you to escort Arya and Sansa through the keep. Dancing lessons, walk in the gardens, to and from their bedchambers—do not let them out of your sight."

"Yes, m'lady."

Eddard, though, kept what he could to himself before he interjected, "If...If this threat is fact, I want no other man to guard you than Jory."

"Tomard will do." Laisa retorted, turning to their men whom were neatly lined and cordial, "This does not leave this solar."

She placed a kiss to Sansa's cheek, to Arya's forehead. "Go on, everything will be all right." She may have pegged Sansa for being an awful liar, but Laisa wasn't bothering to hide her disdain for their father's sudden disregard.

Jory and Harwin left at their sides, to part and resume their day as though nothing had happened—Laisa could only hope.

Tomard excused himself, resuming his duties. The solar felt thick, cluttered when Tomard left and now, Laisa met the steely eyes of her father with a similar if not _exact _demeanor. Had she learned something, anything of Eddard Stark, his rage was made of whispers. He was the calm before her storm—Laisa was no different. She placed herself in the seat before him, not taking her eyes from his as they spoke in silence.

"You are beginning to sound like your mother."

It didn't sound like an insult or a pity, rather it was a show of admiration. Laisa perked up a touch. "My father was threatened, his life could be in danger—do you expect me to sit idly by. To plait my hair and work on my needlepoint, when I know it is not just _you _who is affected."

Eddard chuckled smoothly, "Aye. I expect nothing less from you."

Laisa took that as her leave, rising from her seat and glide to the chamber door to barely get the heavy woodwork open before Eddard's throat clear made her flinch.

"Sit." He said, "We still have much to discuss."

* * *

**JAIME**

His mind was elsewhere. The five men who served themselves up to him to assist in his practice were as oblivious as he hoped, and with every strike of his sword he earned a tram of confidence. Jaime's steel met with shields and lesser blades, the metal sung once he struck and recoiled to prepare for another stroke. He drove his blade forward, to the closest man, whilst defending his unarmed side to send two men to the ground. The remaining three charged with all their might. Jaime's blood was not boiling as it would be in a field of war, it hardly felt warm to the touch. That only angered him, and he thrusted his blade with such force a sword was dropped from the hand of the weakest contender. He fell to his knees, yielding so pathetically, Jaime turned from his position and focused on the last two men standing.

Jaime took two paces back, allowing them to attack their lord as they so pleased before driving his sole into one's armored chest and throwing his wooden practice shield to the ground. It wasn't the same when there was no blood coating the sharpest tip of his blade. That is what he missed. The violence, the bloodlust, the victory. His white cloak tainted the glory of life that was once introduced to him as the Kingsguard.

The sacrifice was too great, and the days were too long.

He lowered his guard, hoping to gather some sense of a challenge as he awaited to be lousily attacked from this unsuspecting opponent, tossing his head of gold back to gather the strands from sticking to his skin.

Another thrust blocked, the metal didn't sound as heavenly as it did when it was one man against another. Jaime had his back turned on purpose, hoping the the band of Lannister men would rise to their feet once more.

It wasn't worth the pitiful practice. Jaime waved them off, wanting peace for the rest of his evening. The sticky air that wafted through the alcoves did nothing for the heat that stuck to his skin. Once his sword was sheathed, he reached for a waterskin and drank as though he hadn't known thirst. It dribbled down his chin, soaking up unto the collar of his tunic but it aided in a well needed cooling sensation.

He took a gander over the sea, the spray of sea salt in his face and the sounds of waves. It wasn't peace, but it was surely better than staring into the stone ceiling in his chambers, allowing himself the luxury to think off duty.

Jaime had his hand fisted into the tunic of a ten-year-old boy. One who loved to climb; shot arrows; ran about the wilderness of the north. Who lived his life in peace..._if only he hadn't climbed that tower._ He squeezed his eyes shut, cursing himself that he would dare blame a child. At the ready, he was insistent on killing those who stood in the way of his path to happiness, a life with Cersei that may never see the light of day. He gripped to the stone wall, his hands trembling.

_What have I_ done.

"Ser Jaime?"

His eyes snapped opened. It was the Stark girl, Laisa was it, to happen upon him as she had done before. Jaime ignored his attempts at forgetfulness, all he ever heard of since the Stark's arrival was Laisa this, Laisa that; Lyanna this and that. Cersei sought him out more now that she was here, now that Robert was torturing himself, skulking and befriending drums of any wine or ale he could get his grubby paws on. Perhaps he should thank her, now that he had Cersei to himself and wholly to himself; in the same breath admit that it was he who shoved the little boy from a tower.

And he had the nerve to be the first to tell her of it. His cheeks hot and reddened from his tumble, the rush to dress himself and act under the guise of guardship of Laisa when he was nowhere to be found.

Jaime forced himself to turn and face her, his eyes following up to the steps where a Stark guard loomed in the shadows of the arcade.

"Ser, you're bleeding."

Was it blood? Jaime thought his sweat felt a bit thick but he paid no mind, simply cleaned himself off with a wet rag and resumed his practices.

She carefully approached, asking with kind eyes of she were allowed in his space. Jaime didn't care. Had he been left to bleed or be cleaned up for the sake of voiding infection, he wouldn't acknowledge it further. There were plenty of wounds that needed tending to, a cut was the least of his worries.

Laisa inclined her chin, a piece of torn fabric from her inserts in her hand as she dabbed the blood that spilled from his forehead. He hissed at the spun cotton having contact with his broken skin, sticking to the wound.

"What brings you to the yards this evening, my lady." Jaime questioned, now holding the piece of cotton to his forehead, once her fingers relieved their pressure. "Plan to steal another bow and quiver for your travels."

"No. I came from the kennels, Ser Barristan insisted on the king's order the wolves be kept there from now on." Laisa said, the corners of her lips pulling into a sardonic smile. "A young fellow thought it was smart to enter my chambers without address."

Laisa gently removed his hand, the sudden stroke of her soft fingers over the calloused, scarred skin of his knuckles. She carefully peeled the cloth back, wrenching the dirty washcloth that hung limply off the wood bucket, using the dampest and cleanest bit of it to melt the blood away.

At first, he was quite enjoying it. Jaime would rather have the soft hands of a woman—albeit a _specific _woman—than the crepe touch of Pycelle. Then, he found himself slowly creating a distance between himself and the aroma of her winter roses. Why was he allowing her to touch him, and so suddenly?

Had he asked, Jaime thought her answer might have been similar to one he had received before. _A kindness_

Jaime took a moment to think, a daunting task he knows. It was a mere moment he caught the glimpse of pure unease at the sight; her gentle caress and attentiveness, similar to some sense of maternal affection. How she approached him, silently asking for his permission before taking a heedful step further.

A sweet thing Laisa Stark is.

_Much too sweet for his liking._

"I hope you don't mind, Ser..." Laisa murmured, pulling her generous hands back to her bodice, "I...If it please you, I'd like to ask you something."

"Go on."

She bit her lip. "This...what I do for you, it doesn't...bother you, does it?"

Jaime raised a brow, "My lady, it would please me if you're more specific of what it is you _do _for me. We wouldn't want another Stark guard to question your honor, now would we." The lilt in his comment caused him to gaze upon the stairs, the man's hand rested comfortably on a glimmering, silver hilt. He smirked in satisfaction.

"Kindnesses." she said, mustering a smile. "Forgive me, it sounds silly. I do not want to come across as a swooning maiden, tending to your whims, as immediately as I do."

Jaime was unsure of what to think of it at first. Had he minded her offering her bed and tending to minor wounds? No, he found himself quite thankful. Perhaps, he should be...the eldest sister of the little boy he nearly killed, tended to him whether he asked for it or no. He turned himself forward, facing the sea once more to welcome the salted sprays and the monstrous sounds that engulfed him completely.

He thought once more, a lucky streak. "No, my lady it does not bother me."

It was his answer that seemed to elate her, and he incited another grin to please her, once more.

There was a flittering thought that reveled in his mind. One he thought it right to ask; he answered on her behalf, what would keep her from returning the favor. "Tell me, have you a knack for expressing your utmost impudence to his and her grace or are all Starks dense by nature."

Laisa went frighteningly still. Perhaps, he should have used a kinder set of words. "Lord Baelish attests that we Starks have quick tempers and slow minds. Perhaps he is right. I seem to be digging my own tomb, with every word I speak."

"A tomb, no. But a pretty, clean spike on the city walls awaits you." _If Cersei were generous; if Robert had the gall to do it._

"Does it bother you, having your ear talked off of my aunt, Ser." Laisa asked, "I assume your sister..._her grace_...must speak on her, on I, plenty. The king...many a whisper of the whores he has that come and go from his chambers, they all share a familiar look."

He remained composed. The relationship between himself and Cersei was yet to be compromised; from the outside looking in, they were twins whom were closer than most. Laisa Stark, raising her babe brothers and sisters, was ignorant enough to believe they were at all the same. It would be unbecoming of her to think so...vilely of her own kin.

"The things one does for love."

Jaime all but recoiled at her words. He was wide-eyed, staring at her with an impulse and a wanton hand gripping the lionhead pommel. Her euphemisms and wise words were scaring him into the thoughtless, wordless belief that she knew. He kept himself even. It was such an erratic feeling, to get a taste of Cersei's own suspicions and here she was, blatantly pointing the needle in his direction and without a second thought.

"Well...perhaps not love." Laisa murmured, "How can you love someone you don't know a damn thing about."

_And yet, I revolt the very people who accepted babes born of their kin. What better a lover than the one you came into this world with. _

"Forgive me, Ser, I've taken enough of your time. You're probably quite spent from your practice...and this conversation. Goodnight." Laisa swiftly ascended the stairs, waving a sweet goodbye before she and her ward were engulfed by the darkness of the alcove.

Jaime lingered for a moment longer, not on her words nor on the conversation he had already forgotten, but his sweet Cersei. An emerald cast in gold; rivaled the beauty of the sun and any dragon's fire. He carefully ascended the same stairwell, making haste to the White Sword Tower. He wasn't expecting her this night, as he hadn't been every other night this month. She seemed to manifest in his chambers and leave before first light to remain loyal to her king, in a sense.

He sauntered through the Tower's entrance, following the serpentine stairs to his chambers with a lug in his step and an unfamiliar weight on his shoulders. A push of his hand and his chambers were exposed, as was the pacing, blonde presence that angrily evaded him despite his arrival.

"You're late."

Jaime chuckled, "I wasn't aware I'd be having company tonight."

Cersei's eyes ignited with an anger he was well acquainted with. "_Where_ were you."

"Will you calm down," he sighed, "I was in the practice yards, enamored with one of our Northern guests."

She had a certain beauty to her when she was jealous, one that made him grin and revel in such a pleasure like a green boy, fresh on the battlefield. Jaime undressed, set his blade closest to his bedside and sought out the washbasin to cleanse himself of the sweat and grime.

"You haven't a thing to fear, sweet sister, the little wolf merely wanted to speak for a moment. Nothing more."

Her tender, slim fingers traced over his shoulder blades, once he was used to the softest of touches, her nails dug deeply into his back.

Jaime hissed. "Gods-"

"Enamored, you say."

_A lion still has her claws_. "A conversation."

She turned him back around, facing her and becoming so enthralled by the neediness she masked behind her anger. Cersei melded her mouth with his, gripping onto his skin as she would his clothes with the intention to mark him. For a woman so fearful, so paranoid, she more than gladly left behind her reminder.

It was the moment he fluttered his eyes shut, one moment tasting the fury on her lips and the next, staring into the emptiness of his chambers.

Jaime didn't bother to chase after her like some cub in need of attention. He took it how she meant it, stripped to his smallclothes and blew out the firelight. The hearth hardly smoldered.

That night, he dreamt of jade and gold, and a fiery touch he desperately craved.

* * *

Another shitty attempt at sword fighting, by the Gods, why do I do it to myself.

Also was it just me or did Laisa dominate this chapter because...while I'm not mad at it, the whole point of POV's is to not center it around my character but I truly couldn't help myself I throughout enjoyed all these interactions and I hope you guys do too!

Don't forget to fav/follow/review! See you next time!


	7. The Hand's Tourney

A/N: hey, how's it goin' :)

* * *

"and I never knew if you were the storm

or the silence."

— g.a.

* * *

**EDDARD**

Eddard was familiar with the spoils of war.

To step and to add to the bodies that laid dead at his feet. Eddard had the disposition of a soldier; one made of many rules to live and die by. Thusly, a hardened man as himself could not flinch at the sight of Ser Hugh, choking on his blood by means of the Mountain's broken lance still lodged in his throat.

His daughters were not spared. Sansa's face, once full of color, flushed to a pale and sickly shade of grey; her hand tightened into a shaking fist of his wool tunic. A bead of blood-stained her cheek, rolling down her chin as though she wept a single, red tear. Sitting beside her, Arya's attention was solely focused on the body of the young man, her eyes sparkled with a blend of vigor and unease. She could not tear her eyes away. Laisa…she clung to Arya, as though she had meant to shield her.

Eddard could do nothing to protect them from something his girls knew nothing of.

His absence from his tourney had since been noted, having tended to his daughters' wellbeings. Sansa's septa had spoken to her on his behalf; Laisa suggested he speak to Arya as she would be of no use to her, and it would have been comforting for it to come from himself.

Eddard feigned his interests long enough in Robert's charades, throwing gold he did not have around for all to take if they so much as smelled of war. To indulge and live vicariously through the young men wielding their lances and handsome armor in the melee.

To smell the blood, he said.

"I don't…I don't think I can stomach another, father..."

Arya had taken up space in his solar soon after the loss of Ser Hugh, sending Jory with her sisters in the events the Mountain may lay claim to another poor man's life.

She curled up into the seat across his desk, peering over the book laid open before him. "What's that?"

"A book." he answered, shortly before shutting it with a heavy hand, "Nothing you need to trouble yourself with, love."

Arya displayed her disinterest and pushed herself from her seat, pacing carefully, one step quieter than the last. She took her lessons with Syrio to heart, though it made him nothing but proud, he relived his days on the field of battle whilst watching his daughter swing that practice sword with tenacity. He remembered the sound of steel against steel, the metalwork singing and the unsavory sound that soon followed after that.

"Syrio must be expecting you."

"Yes, he is," She answered, carefully practicing her footwork, "But I asked for a day to myself."

Eddard chuckled. "And might I ask why."

"To protect you."

Yes, he was reminded of the potential threats against his life that she had brought to his attention and watched as assigned his household guard to protect them. He thought she took the term _wolves are not welcomed in the south _far too seriously; however, he was predisposed. A threat, one that came in the form of whispers of an honorable man such as himself was a cause for concern, and the many who saw him as such would have no quarrels with conspiring to murder another Hand.

_No, _Eddard thought, _Jon wasn't murdered._ Then, his eyes fell back to the book.

_The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms. _Its leather face stared back at him, its title taunting him with the answers that may lead him to the cause of Jon Arryn's sudden demise. He spoke of his second father, of his passing, so determined to believe it was more than a sickness that killed him had him gazing upon Arya, sharply.

_The seed is strong._ Of his children, it was Laisa and Arya that were gifted with strong Stark traits: dark-haired and grey of eye, pale complected, long-faced; unruly, and touched with the 'wolf blood'. As for his other children, they took after their mother in appearance but no matter the auburn of their hair of the Tully blue of their eyes, they were Starks of Winterfell. Children of the North.

He solemn gazed upon the book, again. A calloused finger traced along the spine, recalling his earlier readings regarding the lineages of the Baratheon and Lannister marriages. _Black of hair,_ Eddard thought.

"…Sansa and Laisa seem to have forgiven each other after their squabble. They've been spending far too much time together, she used to come to my dancing lessons, every morning, but now that they made their amends, Sansa has taken her all for herself."

Eddard minded himself to where his head was at and paid his attention back to Arya, her bickering ensued without issue.

"It's not fair! Laisa didn't care for that stupid prince in the first place, Sansa had no right to be as angry as she was!"

"Sansa must have not understood his intentions."

Arya rolled her eyes, following the jagged lines of the stones underfoot with her arms outstretched to hold her balance, "Laisa is our sister, our elder. She should not be speaking ill of her for a dance. Who knows, the stupid prince may be a lecher just as his father is and treat her all the same. Thinks because he has golden hair and he's a prince means he's valiant. He's all she talks about with her maids, with Laisa, she hadn't spoken a word of him to me."

She snorted, loudly. "Perchance, she knows I would jump from the tallest window in the Red Keep if she speaks of him as highly as she does."

Then, she became quiet for a time.

"Bran..." Arya mumbled suddenly "Now that he's awake, will he come live with us?"

At first, Eddard was hopeful that Bran could come join them once he was well enough to travel. To learn he may never walk again, having to be heaved from one place to another, the capital would not be kind to him. He thought of the dangers, what may come of him lest he is left unattended. Or perhaps, what he may feel watching his sisters scour the keep as they so pleased, unable to do it himself. No longer running nor climbing, riding or hunting.

"He needs to gather his strength first."

Eddard scribed a few words regarding the debts the crown swam in, addressing the vast concerns on Robert's behalf. The troubles that poisoned the furthest pit of his mind had much to do with the book he set aside. To where did he expect the investigation of Jon Arryn's death to lead to?

"Father, are you listening?"

A pool of black ink soaked into the parchment due to his neglect, staring at the quill that unknowingly fell from his hand. Eddard met Arya's large eyes, a visible pinch between her brows. He sharply exhaled the tension in his shoulders, and shook his head, "Forgive me, what is it you were saying."

Her mouth opened but the door to his solar was thrown open before she had a moment to speak.

"My lord, her grace the queen."

Eddard raised to his feet at Tomard's address, carefully watching as Arya stepped back behind his desk at his side.

He bowed his head, "Your grace."

Arya hadn't lifted her head, her steely gaze set upon Cersei as though she intended to skewer the queen where she stood. He curled his fingers tightly around her shoulder, squeezing it.

"You're missing your tournament." Cersei glided through his solar, her hands folded, "His grace went to much trouble to procure grand entertainment in your honor."

"Putting my name on it does not make it mine."

Her gaze fell upon Arya, and the chilling grin she presented seemed to rile her. As for the queen, she seemed pleased with herself by her caustic approach. "This must be your youngest daughter."

Arya fumbled during a curtsey, having caught the glimpse of her scowl, Eddard pat her shoulder in an attempt to shoo her off lest she creates a complication to which even he could not resolve.

"Go on, Tomard will escort you to your room." Eddard encouraged, encountering some resistance but with enough force and a stern gaze, Arya departed his solar. Once the door had shut soundly, Eddard expected tooth and claw to be borne.

"I thought we might put what happened on the Kingsroad behind us." Cersei proposed, her smile beginning to wane. "The confrontation between I and your daughter, the ugliness with the wolves, surely this dispute would not go over well…considering our latest affair."

Eddard should not have gone as rigid as he allowed, uncomfortably shifting his weight from one heel to another.

"Has your daughter been matched before, Lord Stark."

_Many have tried. _He thought, carefully adhering his next words to ensure their conversation went without issue. "No. She has had potential matches in the past, all have been denied, but I believe that was a fault of my own, your grace."

Cersei invited herself into the empty seat before him, gesturing to his own. "I fear the day my daughter is to be pursued and shipped off, a day that is slowly approaching…I could not imagine having to do such a thing three times over. Losing one daughter is painful, now another one of yours is being wed off. Tell me, my lord, is she as excited over this arrangement as Sansa is?"

Her smile unnerved him. "So eager, that one."

Eddard pressed his lips into a hard line—the queen had meant for those words to come across as a threat. He rounded his desk intending to discard the ruined parchment scrap, thankful that the ink had soaked across his ineligible message.

"Laisa has yet to be informed, your grace." A lie, one that should not have come so easy but a feasible one at best. Recalling their conversation regarding the matters at hand, Eddard could feel the constriction of a lion's claws grasping tautly around his daughters. Another one of Robert's ploy's…one of the few he was grateful for.

"I'm sure she will be overcome with joy at the news."

A moment of silence wafted through the solar. They stared about one another, still in either's gaze, almost tempting a shift or an exhausted sigh.

"What are you doing here."

"I might ask the same of you," Cersei stated, broadening her shoulders, "What is it you hope to accomplish, my lord."

"My daughters have little to do with my affairs as hand, your grace. Nor do they interfere with my serving of the king and the realm."

Cersei seldom smiled, "I hadn't suspected your children meddled within their father's work."

Perhaps it was his interpretation, a misunderstanding or had she baited him with her initial conversation? Eddard was allowing such paranoias to consume him. He could never be too careful, not in the South, and not before the queen. Summer may yield to winter in the North, but the capital was aflame and there was little he could do to remedy it.

"You cannot change him. He will do as he pleases until his last day, and what makes you believe you can fix him."

Eddard never suspected a shared love or an impression either party was content in marriage. As Robert's closest friend; the brother he chose; now his adviser, Eddard was not a man to be blinded nor would he ignore the impudence Robert had displayed.

The Old Gods and New had known Robert was not fit to be king; a position that masked itself as something more and he was more than willing to accept it. He recalled the night the kingdom fell, Jaime Lannister perched atop the throne, Aerys Targaryen dead at his feet.

In Robert's eyes, the war was won. If only the poor fool had looked a little harder, closer.

"I serve the realm by the king's order and I will do nothing unless I am commanded to do so."

"Commanded?" Cersei bitterly laughed, "The honorable Ned Stark, a soldier from cradle to grave. You take your orders and you carry them out, no room for uncertainty nor suspicion."

She tapped her ringed fingers against the chair's arm, rising to her feet and glided across his solar. Eddard suspected she would take her leave, to return to her den and leave him to do what he was bid.

_No, that would be far too easy,_ Eddard thought, _the queen hadn't yet drawn her fill._

The queen's composure eased, as though she had waned herself down to her rehearsed and docile performance. "How fares your son."

Had he any reason to question her concern? Eddard examined her once more, reaching over to pick up the raven's scroll Maester Pycelle delivered and read its concerns swiftly. Words that had been carried to him rather than hearing them, seeing his son awake from his three-week slumber. Eddard carefully handed the queen the scroll.

"He has awoken, your grace."

Eddard thought nothing of her behavior, simply watched as the queen's jade-green eyes danced across the scroll for several minutes as though she had trouble with her literature. There was a noticeable crease between her brow, though nothing else was out of sorts or cause for alarm.

The queen spoke first, filling the thick silence within the spacious walls. "And your wife, I've heard word of her injuries defending your son from an attack."

His wary eye immediately fell upon Ice. "She is well, healing steadily."

"I will...pray to the Mother for your son and your wife. They, more than anyone, need her guidance and protection" the queen said with finality, handing the scroll back and departing without any further exchange.

* * *

**SANSA**

_He's angry with me_. She thought, wistfully. _He won't even look at me._

Sansa aimlessly followed through the tourney grounds with Lady at her feet, arm in arm with Laisa though she hardly noticed her limb falling slack. What brewed her thoughts was the prince's sudden coldness. Was it her behavior at the feast or, perhaps, it was her childishness? Lady accompanied her on most mornings, she was hardly a disturbance whence she and the prince had passed one another in the halls, yet he shrunk away from her. Did he fear her sweet pet, would he want her to rid of Lady if she bothered him so? Did he blame her for the attack at the riverbank?

_I proved myself loyal to him and only him. _Sansa thought.

Then, the thoughtless accusation wormed its way into her mind. _Was it Laisa?_ The faulty proposal between herself and Joffrey was voided by the king, admitted it was a farce, an inept match, or so Laisa had described.

Arya was right, though it was quite unlike her. Their elder sister prided herself by means of honor and loyalty pledged to her family and Sansa faulted herself for being so foolish.

Her nose scrunched.

"Is it true, what father says." Sansa questioned, a small attempt to distract herself of the glorious sights and scents, carrying forth through the myriad of tents at their leisure, "About—"

Laisa's look was soft, bereaved, "Aye, it be true."

Sansa beamed, squeezing her arm tightly, "Are you not happy, sister, to be wed? Perhaps it is quite longer than father anticipated—"

"If father's word was last, and you would not be betrothed until you were my age, too." Laisa sighed, a hint of cherished laughter in her voice, "Tell me, little sister, what pleases you of marrying a man—_boy_—to whom you do not know."

_does she wish for my counsel?_ She thought, her lips turning upward in a smile. "The tales, the poetry, even the songs speak of true love, of honorable men and valiant kings. To be queen…it is the only thing I've ever wanted."

"Is it now."

"What do _you _want, Laisa." Sansa asked, allowing Lady to have a foot more from her lead, "You must _want _something, _anything_."

Her shoulder shrugged, "I care not for what I want, sweetling, I care for what I need. A lord husband is a want whether the men who rule their kingdoms want to admit it or no."

Sansa almost missed it, the smile that graced her sister's face. It glimmered like freshly oiled steel, was as beautiful as their winters and could draw many a curious person. It was her happiest and Sansa knew it well.

"Home," Laisa answered lightly, "Winterfell, its grey halls, and perpetuating winter—"

"And Jory," She murmured, "I hardly understand why. He is father's captain, Ser Rodrick's nephew; of a minor house that holds no titles nor advancement."

A slip of the tongue had nearly cost her own. Sansa knew better; her recent attitudes have not been becoming…their septa would be displeased.

It was common knowledge amongst the souls of Winterfell to know of her elder and Jory's—what septa namely described a match not worth the thought. Jory was not unkind; he had a sweetness to him, one of few honorable men she knew of by name and by action. Though his wry smiles and allure was not the kind of beauty Ser Alyn held, he was...Jory. A son of House Cassel; nephew to Ser Rodrick, and above all, one of father's most trusted men.

During his turn at the joust, challenged by Ser Horas Redwyne; Ser Rowlan Frey, his victories won him more than his opponent's horse, armor and surpassing to the next rounds.

She had seen the way Laisa smiled for him, offered her cheers and adoration from the benches. And her favor: a silver direwolf ring, discreetly knotted into the laces of his tunic. One could only see such a thing from afar, glinting in the sunlight at his wrist.

Sansa lowered her chin, biting her lip, "Forgive me, that was—"

"A man of the north, loyal and honorable. No need for fat purses or these useless royalties the southern lords strut about." There was a notable glint in Laisa's eye and a smile that became a grin. "Who better to withstand a storm that is named Stark."

_A storm she says. _Sansa thought, _as though such a thing can be tamed._

They continued their walk through the grounds, a handful of colorful tents pitched on the outskirts of the Red Keep. Many banners snapped in the summer breeze; glinting steel and armor of silver and gold; though but a distance she could still hear the banter of the crowd. To be reminded of how silent each man, woman, and child became whence Ser Hugh lied in the dirt…the only sound one could hear for yards, perhaps miles were a knight, choking on his blood. She closed her eyes many a time, praying to the Mother to relieve her of such sights. The further they walked, the quieter it became.

Her wandering eyes came upon the tent that housed the body of Ser Hugh. Cream colored and dull, to not draw an attraction, she assumed. The billowing of smoke from incense and the rattling of chains of the Silent Sisters poured from the parted curtains. Laisa remained where she stood, aimlessly staring into the pitched tent, as though she were hoping to see the knight of the Vale arise from the table, to return to the joust.

"Sansa?"

Ser Barristan stood vigil. The smell of aging blood mixed with the smokiness of spices, of melted copper and pine. Her hand mindlessly tightened about the lead and Laisa's hand, quivering in the sight of the elder Kingsguard, solemn smiling.

The texts never touched upon the deaths of knights. However, Sansa confidently believed that all knights died with honor, amidst battle and defending the innocent.

Not here. Not at the hand of a killer, not one with the likeness of Ser Gregor.

"Come…" Laisa murmured, taking hold of her shoulders to turn her back towards the jousting arena, "Let us enjoy the knights in handsome armor and all their valor."

_Like the songs and stories…_

Sansa showed little resistance, her eyes lowered to the grass underfoot as she was led by Laisa's affectionate touch. She dragged her feet, putting much distance between herself and the joust, for hearing the wild cries and the whinnying of horses; the whispers of bets being placed and rousing knights unseating their opponents. Where the dirt remained red and stained and thusly covered by the kick of a squire's boot.

She climbed the short step to the stalls that held the audience, wedging herself between Septa Mordane and Laisa. Lady nestled warmly between her knees.

"My lady," the septa greeted, "Have either of you seen Arya?"

"At her dancing lessons, perhaps, she is still locked in father's solar." Sansa retorted, then suddenly yelped at the light pinch on her ear.

"Sansa, mind yourself."

Her mouth fell open in an attempt to snap at Laisa's action until the bellowing of King Robert. Raving and ranting, waving his drinking horn about in a stupor. Sansa witnessed this act and looked upon Queen Cersei with saddened eyes following her departure. To the farthest right sat Joffrey, her prince, her beloved. He seemed lost in thought, having a sort of handsomeness in the midmorning light.

Joffrey's eyes fell upon her, steadily; her smile for him was small and sweet. And short-lived, too.

"Mind him not, sweetling," Laisa assured as brushed a stray tear falling down her cheek, "He will come to his senses."

"Will father do the same."

Laisa chuckled, "Not as long as he is alive."

Sansa faced the jousting opponents, recognizing the black courser and its rider; a significant feature was the helm worked into the image of a snarling hound. His opponent strode gallantly aside, saddled atop a groomed white stallion. Though, his armor was not white-and-gold, instead black-and-crimson, and embellished with the heads of lions.

The white stallion urged forward towards the starting lines of the post markers, his helm being removed and placed onto the pommel of the saddle.

_Ser Jaime Lannister. Lean and gold and fierce…a lion amongst men. _Sansa thought.

"A hundred gold dragons on the Hound!"

Another gambler announced, "Two hundred on the Lion of Lannister!"

"Hundred and fifty to Ser Jaime!"

The purse grew as amounts flew across the aisles, the shouting of an excited crowd, and the scribbling of a quill to pad scratching loudly just behind.

Sansa fumbled with the ornamental flowers sewn to her neckline, anxiously awaiting what came shortly after their lances met. Lances snapped like twigs, a draw was called, ending the first tilt. The sea of people grew restless, shouting their demands and larger sums to one opponent or the other.

"Had no one asked for your favor?"

Laisa grimaced, "I have not found a champion worthy or suitable of my favor."

"Is your betrothed not worthy of your favor, my lady?" From the row behind, Lord Baelish took a moment from his bidding and collecting.

His wormy smile, his closeness made Sansa shrink closer to her septa. Whether the man knew it or no, Lord Baelish frightened her. Be it his accurate retelling of the awful tale of the Mountain and the Hound; his vast interest in businesses akin to inns with women as guests or workers; or perhaps the relationship he and their mother shared, once so very long ago.

Sansa shied away from their conversation, paying closer attention to the joust, in its second tilt. The riders charged one another, lances pointed and aiming for more than their shields. The collision resulted in a second tilt, second draw, and a second broken lance from Ser Sandor.

Once more, the gambling ensued and the number of dragons they threw so willingly into the pockets started to lessen They seemed to have lost hope, or perhaps they bet on the wrong champion.

"I take it your father would not want another incident to occur, your dear aunt Lyanna was crowned, at a tourney, too, my lady."

_To be crowned queen of love and beauty. _Sansa thought, blithely.

A roar of appraisal erupted the tourney grounds. In a moment, Ser Sandor Clegane was unseated, and Ser Jaime victoriously wove his broken lance in the air for all to admire.

Sansa watched as he kicked his stallion forth, still amusing the wildness of the audience. He then exchanged his broken lance for his earned purse…and a laurel of winter roses.

* * *

**CATELYN**

_The march to the Eyrie would be treacherous, _Catelyn thought, reaffirming her grip on the reigns of her soot-colored mare. _It is a journey worth the risk._

Bran had awoken in the time of her travels. Dark words carried by a raven's wing, the sound mind of her little boy and the uselessness of his legs. _One day, he will understand. _she retold, time and time again in her moments of impugn. Her drastic actions were driven by a course of motherly love, seeking justice for the act done on the order of a Lannister.

The Gods only knew what the true cause of Bran's fall was. Tyrion Lannister, abhorrent and diminutive, was closer than she had been with a Valyrian dagger and a nameless, spineless, and throatless corpse who dared set foot into her home.

Perhaps, it was a blessing; a fortnights worth of prayers answered. The imp had waltzed into a crowded inn at the crossroads, seeking stay where there was none even for the man of his size. It, perhaps, was a plan too thoughtfully devised, to be amongst bannermen loyal to her father and to seek their strength where it was needed.

"M'lady, we've some hundred miles 'fore we enter the Neck. Maybe less." Ser Rodrick informed in a weary drawl, ensuring their prisoner remained unaware of their travels.

Catelyn urged the dark mare forward some yards, coming within a stone's distance of the rocky terrain of the Mountains of the Moon, and what awaited them between the passage of the bloody gate, and no further.

"We rest here," she announced, seeking no sight of approval.

Knights of House Whent saw to Tyrion Lannister's arrest; Frey and Bracken men stood side-by-side, guarding their temporary encampment. Catelyn remained atop her mare, looking into the mountains with little hope they would part at her command. She must have alerted many with her silence, her longing engrossed into the scenery to which lied between herself and her sister.

Time and soil were not the only things that parted them.

Amid Jon Arryn's death, Catelyn was privy to her sister's silent departure with Robert. Whispers of Lysa's mind had grown feeble, delicate. She wondered how her little sister fared. Words spoken, shortly and through a raven scroll meant to accuse a noble House of killing her Lord Arryn. Catelyn was determined to believe Lysa was sound of mind, and these accusations were nothing but inflated words of mouth. A woman in mourning said to be driven mad by the loss of her husband.

"You're troubled, m'lady."

Catelyn pursed her lips. "I'm in a state of dread…I feel it in my deep bones, Ser. The capital has consumed my husband, my daughters, too. During our stay, I could not work the courage or risk our findings reaching the city watch. Bran…he much be…" Tears pricked her eyes; a slight tremble reached her lips. "I prayed to the gods, seven times, to all seven faces for his stay and my prayers were answered, gruesomely so."

Thick, grey clouds swirled overhead, and a slight breeze gust against her cloak, disheveling her hood. It was the scent of winter, as the seasons began to yield. A delicate reminder of what awaited her northward. Her sons, sweet and wild things; her daughters, perhaps as reckless as her sons if not more, and her Sansa...her sweetling who reveled in her tales and poetry. A lady, born to please and to curtsey with pride. Her Laisa and Arya, pricking themselves with sewing needles and practicing their archery in the dead of night.

Her husband, ruling from his ancestral seat and safe within the stone walls of Winterfell.

_A child's fancy,_ she thought. _Safety no longer exists._

A family divided, a family nearing ruin. Catelyn reached for the Valyrian dagger from Ser Rodrik, unsheathing and examining its blade; she admired its handsomeness in comparison to what it left behind. A cold, red bite scarred into the palms of her hands.

"This was no work of the gods, my lady." said Ser Rodrik, "Justice will prevail, and the shit imp will answer for his crimes." A sure reminder of his assurance, his confidence unwavering and perhaps growing bolder with every second passed as they traveled closer to the Eyrie.

Motherly love can blind every bit as much as rage, and she was ravenous for vengeance. There was no room for instances regarding the imp's culpability. It was Tyrion Lannister who ordered an assassination attempt on her son, her sweet boy, of ten and sleeping in his chambers. Her proof was the blade, a prize belonging to none other.

She found her reflection within the steel; a fury had sparked in the blue of her eye. A trait of the Stark's she may have not inherited through blood but adapted, having born wolves herself. A touch of the wolf's blood made her more she-wolf than trout. Her tears had soon dried, and her strength revived.

"He will," Catelyn replied with a profound amount of certainty, sliding the blade back into its sheath with a satisfactory click. "And the seven hells await his arrival, should he be so lucky."

* * *

yeesh! it's been a minute you guys, how are you! school has been kicking my ass and I took time out of my insane schedule to finally finish chapter six, and there you have it! I will be going over this chapter in the coming week to double-check any grammar mistakes, I rushed to get this out because it's been eating at me for over two months that I haven't completed it until now.

I changed up the summary of this story _and _made posters on my tumblr if you want to check them out!

To **WickedGreene13 **and **KingofTruands**, thank you so much for being my favorite reviewers! And thank you so much to all who have found this story and have followed/favorited over the course of my hiatus!

See you next time!


	8. The Lion's Mouth

A/N: Happy Thanksgiving everyone! I hope you all have a happy holiday if you celebrate! I'm back at it again with the monthly update and I'd love to thank you all so much for your patience with me. As my semester comes to its end, I plan to upload more frequently as winter break rolls around.

* * *

"i am not one to paint with red.

but spill my blood and I will come back to claim yours."

— k.t.

* * *

**JAIME**

Jaime carefully touched his lips to Cersei's forehead, having felt her scold form even in the depts of sleep. A moment as such reminded him of one so very long ago. A different time, a proposal to the Stark girl's aunt and once more tangled in the intricacies of his sweet Cersei. However, this time, she could not bribe him with the white cloak and a promise of never leaving her side again.

He brushed a strand of gold hair aside, tangling a few fingers in her mane before pressing a final kiss to her skin. Jaime sat at the edge of the featherbed, once unthoughtfully shared with Robert, and stood bare in the warm summer breeze. There was no risk so early in the morning, but he shouldn't have been so careless. His armor gleaned with pride, the white cloak flashed similarly but as he gazed at himself in the reflection of the looking glass, a lion in crimson and gold stared solemnly back.

_Father always dreamt of securing the North._

To imagine himself at the side of the Stark girl, arm in arm, courted and mated like animals…perhaps one thing they could bond over.

He punished himself for becoming far too dedicated to the role his father intended he perform. To crown her the queen of love and beauty before an audience…a chance he had reminded the far and many of a tourney seventeen years ago. Though, he did wonder selfishly how many would perish should this arrangement be pursued.

He departed the royal chamber, sauntering through the halls to scour for Robert's whereabouts, though he might be surprised to find him in a place that is none other than beneath a whore or six. Jaime heeded to the throne room, his duties at first light to stand before the doors and guard.

_Glorified. A knight, sworn by oath, to protect a madman and a drunk. _His father's voice reverberated but until his dying breath, Tywin Lannister had his say. And as the days grew shorter, the winds blew colder, his time wearing the cloak that once brought him so much pride would come to its bitter end.

Did his word mean nothing whence Tywin and Robert spoke amongst themselves to marry him off as though it was what _he _wanted?

_It was a wise move_. Jaime thought, _my attendance would have caused a stir and surely I would not be subjected to a life of such…trite._

Jaime entered the throne room, occupied by none other than his betrothed and her sister, aside her septa being retold the history from their years of lessons. Maester after maester, scribing the memory of the kings who were gone. Their deeds good and bad. How their country was built, and the lives lost in order to bring prosperity.

It bored him half to death.

"Grandfather and Uncle Brandon were murdered here, weren't they?"

The room had fallen silent at the young girl's query; however, the attention had fallen from the old hag to…well him.

"My lord," greeted the young Stark, she graced him with a curtsey and the smile of a Lady. Her fancies of knights in all their honor, all their valor…to think he was something like her, once. The septa merely bowed her head, then turned back to the young one to inform her of her loss. A tragic one indeed, and the whispers of Rickard and Brandon Stark's name.

Jaime hadn't paid any mind to the septa's excuses as to why she could not learn of her history, and who it was that brought them so much suffering. Instead, he found himself curiously watching Laisa Stark. The faintest of whispers, what he could make out over the sound of septa and her sister speaking.

A prayer, to the Mother he assumed, to wager the wars and bring kindness upon the world.

Jaime could remember something similar, another song that was not as kind nor as forgiving, and its choice of instruments was not either. A symphony of laughter, of screams, and five-hundred men and himself hadn't found it within themselves to make a sweet sound of their own lest they are subjected to the same fate as the men who hung and burned in the very spot the Stark sisters stood.

To this day, Jaime had the scent of cooked flesh seared into his memory; Brandon Stark hanging from the rafters, watching his father die. The throne was no longer empty, and smoke billowed from floor to ceiling.

"Septa take Sansa to the kitchens to break her fast and see if Arya hasn't been sent to her dancing lessons without a meal."

"Yes, my lady," said the septa, "Come, child."

Once they departed on her order, the hall became silent. Laisa stood where her grandfather burned alive, staring into the Iron Throne as though it had called her by name. _Many a sacrifice for burned and molded steel._ Jaime thought bitterly.

"I understand it was my father who found you here."

The way she spoke of his being there sounded more like an accusation. A way to punish him for not doing more as though the other five hundred men who watched them burn and hang had done anything to preserve them, too. Jaime's jaw angrily clenched.

She turned to him, unexpressive and hardly holding his gaze. "Was your decision truly to avenge my family or is that how you justify your actions on behalf of your wrongdoing."

Laisa Stark was truly her father's daughter. In both word and wit, the ice folk of the North had come to test his patience.

"You speak of kindness, my lady." Jaime bit harshly, "Had you known the Mad King—"

"I will never know him as you once had, Ser, nor do I blame you for your rash decision…I dislike men using Rickard and Brandon Stark's death to justify their means." She replied bluntly, taking some steps toward him to stand at his side and stare upon the dais. "The Mad King was a monster…and though many see it as a vile act performed by one sworn to protect him…perhaps thinking rationally is not accepted in the capital but that monster deserved what he was awarded."

Laisa then turned to him, her lips pressed into a hard line and an angering crease between her brows. "My tongue may be ripped from my mouth for saying such things, Ser, but kings need understand they are not invincible. And a chair made of swords or a crown, or perhaps many a guard at their beck and call will not protect them."

At that, he grinned with the slightest hint of satisfaction. "Dare I assume you are about as enthralled about this arrangement as I."

Her silence was damn near deafening. Though, Laisa's features softened ever so slightly, and she faced him completely with a slight, twitching smile at the corners of her mouth. "If I may be honest, Ser, I find your…person more appealing to wed than Robert's eldest son."

_Yes, that little vermin…_ Jaime thought, _A squirt of my seed in Cersei's cunt…how odd would that have been?_

"How do you feel of it, Ser. I wasn't aware Kingsguard could be released from their vows. Traditionally speaking, the only way the seven know freedom in their lifetime is…"

"Death." He finished. _To be wed is quite similar._

Laisa's smile faltered some. "My father says some men are like swords, made for fighting and nothing more. Hang them up…" Her gaze turned upon the throne in its tainted glory. "…and they go to rust."

"Are you asking if I will rust, my lady." He questioned, arching a golden brow.

"The greatest swordsman in all of Westeros, pulled from his duty to settle and marry, to produce heirs as his father sees fit. If I know anything but at all, Ser, lordship will not agree with you."

Jaime reached for her folded hands, running a calloused thumb over a thin silver ring and gently squeezed her fingers.

_The moon could never overshadow the sun,_ he thought. As though he needed another reminder, Jaime would no longer be within arm's reach of Cersei, he would never be within arm's reach of battle. Had he been younger—youth would have driven him to fight harder to remain by her side. Jaime had never thought for himself nor did he do anything that wasn't of his own volition, any decision he made in his lifetime was influenced by his sister. She was quite the persuasive woman, and he was more than willing to follow.

Where was his resistance, his fight, and remorse?

Jaime pulled himself from her, putting distance between them as he turned to face the doors of the throne room in hopes he was allowed leave. "Perhaps, it is something we can learn to bond over."

Was it absurd of him to believe he could _feel _her smiling?

"Perhaps it can be," she said.

The Great Hall grew silent. Jaime stood cordially before the throne, posing his guardship and indulging in his numbered days as a Kingsguard. His selfish desires, his needs, came before his father's wishes and what part of that did Tywin Lannister fail to understand? It was rather simple, Jaime ought to agree, he wanted no wife nor children. His seed gave Cersei some happiness, humanity, too. Jaime oft wondered what kind of father he would be like…to express his love for his three children, and the thought weighed his armor heavier on his chest.

"My father received word about my little brother's awakening, ser."

Jaime remained still but his body demanded he collapse at such news. Though, he should feign some ignorance…it was his good-brother that he shoved from the tower. "And…and how is he?"

Laisa's shoulders slumped. "He will never walk again. Maester Luwin says his mind is sound, but…he now lies in his bedchamber, vulnerable."

The shadow of guilt cast upon him, but his curiosity out of pure concern overrode his tension. "Does he remember his accident."

She shook her head. "He…the memory of the fall evades him, ser. I've…in his short ten years I have never known him to fall. I understand accidents happen, why our mother stressed he does not climb but he was—_is_—a wild thing. Mother blames herself for not ensuring her strictness and I blame myself for not being more careful with him."

The Stark girl solemn smiled, wandering about the hall as she spoke, "Before his fall, he was determined to wear the white cloak, to be a Kingsguard." Laisa lightly laughed, "He begged Robb to teach him to wield a sword, younger than he was if I remember right. They would practice from first light to dusk and on and on it went until one day Bran forgot to raise his shield and Robb rang his head like a bell."

Jaime's hand had begun to shake, resting uneasily on the lion head pommel at his hip.

"He looked up to men like you, ser, I only wished Bran could've been spared…" she murmured, palming her watering eyes before composing herself. Her smile was forced, Jaime noticed. "Forgive me, I've taken enough of your time once again. I'll leave you to your duties, Ser."

Once Laisa departed the Great Hall, he was left to drown in the silence and once more having to stare at that empty seat. A resounding trill of a deadly command could be heard overhead in the hall.

_Man Without Honor, _one voice hissed.

Nobility before honor. It was Jaime's first lesson as a boy, as there was no honor in killing a king. One he was sworn by oath to protect, however cruel the action committed mattered very little. Driven to the edges of insanity, exhibiting cruelty far more merciless than the predecessors before him, and the haunting screams of his queen echoing within the halls of the Red Keep long after a victim to wildfire had burnt to bone and ash. _A crowned beast. _Jaime thought. One he relieved the kingdoms of, a wrath no man could have survived had Aerys been given the chance. As the histories state, the Targaryen's never buried their dead: they burned them within a shot of dragon's fire.

King Aerys had set to make the Red Keep his pyre.

_Kingslayer! _the voices of the keep whispered once his back was turned. A run of his sword, a lapse in judgment where oaths and honor did not exist, and a million souls saved.

The vision of his finest act played out before his eyes as he climbed the dais, carefully and quietly retracing his steps. Jaime unsheathed his blade to harshly glare into his reflection. The steel shone brightly, mockingly so and what stared back was…only him. No glean of wildfire, no smoke or bodies burned to ashes at his feet.

Another dared to snarl_, Oathbreaker._

"And now," he muttered, standing over the stain in the marble underfoot, "I am to break another vow."

* * *

**CERSEI**

It mattered not how many times she read over father's raven scroll, it mattered not what protests she put up before her king. Jaime was to be married and shipped off to Casterly Rock within two moons to the Stark bitch. A compromise made to lessen the debt Robert had compiled during his reign, and what better a way to acquire the North than to marry his heir to the girl her husband desires most.

_Father gets his heirs, for a price. _Cersei thought snidely. The sword was double-edged and sharp, for she felt the sting of betrayal whence it was up to her to figure what had been devised without her knowledge.

Cersei scrapped the parchment, angrily hurling a glass cup against the nearest wall in her solar. She glared in the direction of a frightened handmaid, sending her scampering from her solar and into the halls to skulk over her queen's mistreatment. The two who remained stood stiller than statues, fearing if they spoke or perhaps they looked for too long, they would run from her wrath.

The commands of their lord father remained on her tongue, her lips curling into a snarl and shouted, "Get out!"

_He defied father once before, _Cersei thought angrily, _He will do it again._

She gathered herself, one more shielding her rage behind the mask of the pliant queen, waving her hand to request her handmaids follow. Cersei stalked through the red stones in search of Robert, ignoring every curtsey and greeting coming from the likes of the hens and their cocks, simpleminded and thusly presenting their sense of admiration for her.

"Your grace!"

Cersei hadn't halted, she continued her search with the distance rattling of armor sprinting in her direction. What this knight had to say could have not been of much importance, should he have announced it without false courtesies and earned her attention as though he was worth pausing her journey to pull her husband from a bed full of whores.

The rattling grew louder, and her thinking was drowned out by the wretched sound.

"Forgive me, your grace," panted the Lannister guardsmen, "There has been word of—"

Cersei's jade-green eyes had narrowed upon this young man, seeking his words since he had forgotten to speak with fluency. She needn't remind, ask, or beg for the news. It should have been presented to her and carried on their separate ways.

"A raven, from—" The parchment was snatched from his grasp, peeling at the unbroken seal of a House she needn't bother to name.

The contents of the message brewed a hate and anger so deep in her belly, she had convinced herself her final breath was to be a shot of fire. To burn the capitol to the ground and seize the old wolf for what she deemed to be treason. Cersei may have cared very little for her young brother but to lay hand on her blood, on a Lannister, despite being the lowest of their breed. Their father would have thought and acted similarly.

_That little monster has been kidnapped by Lord Stark's wife._ Cersei snarled, "Bring Lord Stark to the small council chamber at once."

She stalked the halls once more, a lioness on the prowl for a little wolf to devour in vengeance should the Stark bitch lay a hand on her blood, no matter how satisfying it may be to finally be rid of Tyrion. Their father would not allow such an atrocity to be committed on behalf of him. There would be war, all for the little imp had Catelyn not returned him in one piece.

Just how many Starks did they have to maim for them to understand they were not as smart as they thought they were?

Her eyes glimmered with a hint of satisfaction knowing what Catelyn's stupidity would bring upon. This would drive a wedge in Robert and father's proposal to marry Jaime off. Perhaps, this would be the only instance she would thank Tyrion for his sacrifice and put a stop to the union. A wolf cloaked in the silks of lions, Laisa Stark would not survive.

Cersei's mouth curled into a smirk.

"A beast!"

"Your grace, be careful!"

The useless handmaids threw themselves before her, shielding her from what posed itself to be a blackened shadow, heeled at the taut hold of her master. Cersei's green eyes flared like pools of wildfire at the sight of the Stark cunt, and her monster at her feet. It growled with intent but was yanked back at the slight.

"Forgive me, your grace, I hadn't thought—"

Cersei forced herself to smile. "Nonsense, child. I see that you have taken your…animal's precaution to means."

Laisa bowed her head, "Of course, your grace, I would…hate to see our wolves participate in an unprovoked attack. Try as we might…wild animals cannot be tamed, and it must be silly to think an animal can understand what we do for them out of love."

_A Stark was truly thicker than the wall of ice guarded by the Night's Watch._ Cersei thought. She remained composed despite being compelled to enact on the Stark girl's stupidity. She was nothing more than a child, living a lavish and depreciated dream. She knew there was more to the girl than what she led on and let it be known, she will run Casterly Rock into the dirt if Jaime hadn't done it first.

That is if she made it to the dais of the Sept to proclaim their vows.

"Animals are like children; my son Tommen tells me, teach them the right way, the kind way and they will repay your teachings with loyalty." She replied, "He has taken a liking to kittens and stories of shadowcats living in the mountains of the Vale. He also tells me your wolves scare his pets away and fears his little ones will be their supper at one time or another."

Laisa's eyes widened, her place standing before her grace in unease. "Your grace, please assure the prince that his kittens are safe. They intend no harm—"

"Perhaps they intend no harm, my lady, but they are wolves all the same." Cersei countered, a high arch in her brow, "As you said: wolves can never truly be tamed."

The queen rounded her handmaids, trembling in fear and failing to mask their false sense of bravery. If it were allowed without consequence, she would feed every faulty girl to the wolves—it would better serve to give them to the lions, but the cats of the west existed no longer. A chill had run down her spine at that realization but put it to rest—timely omens meant very little and the thought of one should not have frightened her so.

Cersei shifted her perspective and approached the Stark girl, warmly and welcome-like. She reached for her hand free of a leather lead, squeezing her affectionately. Perhaps, a tad too tightly. "Come, we have much to discuss before the wedding."

She couldn't hide her pitiful embarrassment as the rush of red had come to her cheeks. Laisa Stark, the blushing bride-to-be, oh how Cersei could see her youthful and similarly as poignant self in her. She forcefully linked their arms, pulling her through the halls with intent.

"During our stay in the North, I told your mother what beauties you and your sister are. Things of such attractive natures should not be hidden in grey waste." Cersei mused without must interest in investing in the girl's pride. "And now here you are…to be married to my brother. A knight. I'm sure your little sister must be gleaming with admiration…living a maid's tale."

There was nothing like living the stories. Cersei had a tale of her own, one she would not be inclined to share as thought it would tarnish the memory, though there was little fondness she bothered to remember. Perhaps, it would do the Stark girl some good…and caution her that marriage was little like the songs.

However, there was very little Cersei believed would frighten the girl. She knew nothing of heeling, as all dogs and wolves alike should learn.

"Has your mother discussed with you what happens on the day of the wedding, my lady?"

Laisa stiffly shrugged. "At length. She…discussed with me the ceremony, I'm familiar with the ways of the Old Gods. I'm unfamiliar with the weddings of the New."

"And the bedding ceremony?" Cersei queried maliciously.

It never dawned on her why so many maids blushed and shied from the conversation of the bedding. It was ceremonious proof that houses were adjoined. A sheath for a sword, Jaime would say. Mayhaps it had plenty to do with Robert, a thought deadened by a drunk boar of a man groping and seeking her cunt, whispering the name of a corpse. Need she remind herself it was Jaime who had taken her maidenhead, a memory that would never pass her lips

Laisa shied the same, those dull gray eyes of hers fell to the floor. "Yes, your grace."

Cersei's tilted the girl's chin upward, her mouth pressed into a hard line, "I take it your lady mother taught you the ways of lords. My brother, you see, is a knight in all sense of the title. Brutality and violence are all he knows…he takes what he pleases, without question and without request."

The girl's mouth parted as though she were to retort, to say something clever. Cersei crowed on, "To deny him, I fear I know not of my brother's wrath—"

"Do you think your lies will submit me into fear, your grace."

A cold gust blew through the hall of the keep, scattering few leaves underfoot, whisking away the queen's patience all the same. Cersei dropped her hand from Laisa's face, still latching onto her arm as she continued their stroll. There was a moment, one of mild clarity that dawned on pushing the girl from the balustrade that overlooked the Narrow Sea, to be rid of the ghost of the Red Keep for all the good it would do her. Though, the moments her eyes fell upon the beast bonded to her and the spineless hens who strut about in her service, a mauling was to be in order.

_The beast and her master would be dead, long and forgotten. _Cersei thought, _As would I._

It would have been foolish of her to fear wolves. And even more so to think the shadow with the molten amber eyes knew of her scheme.

Cersei sunk her claws into her arm, earning nothing more than a wince. "You would be right to know fear, girl, and you would be smart to remember that."

"And what should I fear of my newly betrothed," said Laisa, miffed. "Lord Jaime has been nothing but kind to me, or what he deems kindness. Is it his sharp wit, his knighthood, dishonored or otherwise, or perhaps it is his capability to accept what he has been bid. Forced, or otherwise."

Laisa forced herself to halt, despite Cersei's attempt to budge her forward with no success. Should she have borne her teeth, too, to convince that she was not as docile as the Baratheon made her out to be?

"I have little belief that Lord Jaime and I will be content as one. We have a duty to the people of the West and those of the North. Alliance and allegiance are all marriages are for and I have lesser doubts that there would be anything more than that." Her words sounded familiar, striking. "Perhaps, if I take anything frrom your _kind_ teachings and wisdom, is that once I am given children, Lord Jaime and what he has never intended to offer will mean nothing."

Cersei gazed over the horizon; the girl's strife-laced words meant less to her than her proclamation of no true courtship. She lulled over the beauty of the sea, impeccable and mysterious, the distance between the savages and the noble people of proper nurturing.

She allowed Laisa Stark to continue her ramble to an extent before the queen succumbed to the bore of a spiel, the words of an honorable woman, birthed of the loins of an honorable man. Cersei's slender fingers cupped her cheek, pressing a nail at a time into the jaw and sought the sweet reaction. It mattered not her infliction was in comparison to the bites of flies, but it was invigorating to witness a spark ignite in those glum eyes of hers.

"Understand me well, my lady, my brother may not ruin you…" Cersei's promising threat was filled to the brim with poison. "That is if our father hasn't _ruined_ you first. Once Jaime's sons have been pulled from your womb, your purpose falters. When the time comes it is then that you should know true fear. Your monster will not protect you, your father nor your brothers will come to your aid. And Robert—"

"I understand, your grace, you needn't overburden yourself. I've understood my purpose, what this marriage means and could mean." Laisa pulled the queen's hand from her face, tracing mindlessly over the crescents burrowed in her cheek. "Not a soul involved in this arrangement is thrilled but we must do our duty without question and life will continue. And from what I have been informed with, your grace, I am living on borrowed time the moment I proclaim to my betrothed that I am his before gods and men."

Laisa became quiet for a time, her chin lowering. "But…might I ask a question, your grace."

Silence loomed over the queen. It was her intention to draw the query before she removed herself from her arm and went about seeking Robert to inform him of her mother's treachery. Cersei found her odd. Not a moment short of threatening her very life, she begs a womanly question that she could only sate.

"Will…" she murmured, "Will Lord Jaime hurt me as the king has wounded you."

Her brother was all but an abuser or a drunk. Jaime's choice of wine wasn't arbor gold or Dornish reds—it was the adrenaline of battle. A bloodied blade, clean armor. Cersei could attest that he had been loyal from the moment of their birth, however, she could not agree to the same. It was a contingency the girl needn't trouble herself with, asking as though she had loved him with her heart and soul, to fear the worst if her infatuations were not returned.

Cersei answered, salaciously and honestly. "No. What I predict is you two will not see each other until the time comes to breed little lords and ladies. He will be confronted with learning to be a lord once more to have any other reason to busy himself with you."

The answer may have sated the young girl.

"I thank you for taking the time to speak with me, your grace, pardon me but I must excuse myself."

With that, Laisa curtsied and Cersei might have thought herself mad whence the wolf at their feet bared teeth at her. To be threatened by a beast, she could hear her father's mockery.

_No, not one. _She reminded, lifting her head high as she watched the wolves depart in silence.

* * *

**TYRION**

The Eyrie was known to be impregnable, his high towers and sky cells, it's magnificent Moon Door that he was bound to leap from lest the outcome of his trial become successful. And as he lay, on his back awaiting what words had come from the touched Lady Arryn, he tucked himself into a corner to avoid looking over the cliffs of the Mountains of the Moon.

It would be a passive way for a Lannister to die. A little lion thrown from such a distance, body too mangled to recover and bother to bury in the crypts of Casterly Rock. Tyrion smiled at the thought of his father finally being relieved of him, then starting a war for murdering a Lannister.

A clang rattled the iron door between him and freedom. The turnkey, Mord, he deranged man was titled, taunted him through the bars and attacked him once his shouting of debts and Lannister gold became too much for him to handle. However, this time, he didn't see the ugly face of the turnkey.

"Lady Stark!" he shouted joyfully over the rush of cold winds, "What a delightful surprise!"

Catelyn was very little trout these days, she had outgrown her scales and instead bore teeth and claws. Her expression was stoned, unchanging. He could see where Robb Stark got his fearlessness from, an attribute he did not attain from his lord father.

She threw a scroll through the bars, sneering at him. "What do you know of this lie, imp."

Tyrion gathered to his feet, hobbling over to pick up the parchment. It was embellished with the silver seal of the Hand.

_Lady Arryn of the Vale,_

_Within two moons Lady Laisa of House Stark and Lord Jaime of House Lannister are to be wed. You are formally invited to attend._

_Lord Eddard of the House Stark, Hand of the King_

Tyrion's eyebrows raised in utter disbelief. _Jaime, betrothed? He must have pushed father over the edge this time. _He thought with a sardonic smile. "It seems we may be family soon, you and I."

"Once winter comes to the Seven Hells, perchance I will accept that." Catelyn bit.

"I must say, Lady Stark, you would be smart to allow my leave. I can attest that there has been no attempt on your son's life by me nor anyone in connection to me," said Tyrion, thumbing the seal, "How awful would you be, accusing me of harming my good-brother?"

Mord slammed his baton against the door, causing him to rear backward and cower in fear he may be in for a beating once more.

"One child victim to your breed, another to be wed to the prince, and now…you take my eldest daughter."

Tyrion was numbed by blame for actions that were not of his own making. How dense were the Starks? Did word mean nothing to them? Weren't the Stark baseborn out of honor, self-righteousness?

Catelyn's Tully blue glare hardened, "These are not my lord husband's words."

_A slow mind seemed to have plagued her, too. _

"Of course they are, my lady, just as your youngest is to be given to my nephew, there had been works of adjoining the wolf and the lion."

"The Kingslayer will not dishonor my daughter—"

Tyrion snorted loudly, "You must be unfamiliar with Robert and his wants. If it is what the king wishes, your lord husband granted, I scarcely see how you will unravel this engagement. But let's not discuss weddings, my release is what I intend to focus my strengths too."

"Confess and you shall be released."

"Is there a certainty that I will not be pushed through the Moon Door the moment I confess or am I guaranteed my right to a trial?"

Her thin lips pressed into a hard, angry line. "That is your right."

The winds kicked up, howling through the stones of his cell, and the wild rush of Alyssa's Tears was within a stone's throw. Perhaps paying more attention to the sounds of the Vale whilst his life was in the balance was a twisted sense of dealing with his condition. Tyrion oft sought a distraction from his reality, one that came in the form of his brother, his wits and knowledge. He would outsmart his way out of this, it only took time.

However long he had is what proved to be difficult.

"I have nothing to confess to, my lady," Tyrion said with finality, taking the scroll to sit in the furthest corner and swaddle himself as he watched Catelyn depart.

Mord became visible through the bars, giggling and smirking like a common fool. He awaited his death or his release, whichever fate was faster.

As Tyrion drifted in and out of slumber, the winds ripping through his confinement once more and howling a reminder that he was not as safe as he believed himself to be, Tyrion thought of Jaime. His protector, his elder brother who loved him and would come to defend him lest war is waged by his capture. A thought Tyrion pondered on as if a soul knew he was missing. There was nothing suspect, travel from the Wall to King's Landing took far longer than one could anticipate and his family—his brother—believed it was nothing more than time spent on the Kingsroad to the capital.

He fell into a pit of sleep.

Tyrion thought it lasted long and well until he was struck with a rush of wind and what made out to be a haze of his demise, a six-hundred-foot drop. He immediately rolled himself to safety, his heart quickening in his chest. What was his crime again? An innocent man accused of trying to kill a boy, not once but twice, from distances even he would deem impossible. A boy who knew nothing, who said nothing. Oh, and how could he forget the charge of murdering the late Lord Jon Arryn.

His crime of being an imp, a dwarf, a demon monkey has condemned him guilty for life and he had yet to find the knowledge to change that.

Mord was still guarding his cell, speaking nonsense to himself and occasionally banging his baton to remind him he was still there.

There came a time in his moments of solitude where he evaluated his chances of escaping with himself intact. Headsmen were outlawed in the Eyrie, perhaps he should be a hint grateful he may leave the falcon's nest with his head still on his shoulders. He overlooked the landscape of the castle, shuddering at the possibility of becoming carrion for the birds and the mountain tribes.

_To confess would mean accountability. _He thought, _A negotiation I could come out of lest I demand trial by combat, Jaime..._

Tyrion sadly laughed to himself. "You fool...he must be busy planning his escape from his new wife.." A time where Jaime could not come to his rescue, a time where he was indisposed with other matters, perhaps in the coming few days he would die. It was a fate he needn't think to prepare himself for yet a pity to believe he would be left to rot at the hands of Lysa Arryn.

However many men she tossed through the Moon Door before him and however many she would throw soon after he.

_No, _Tyrion reassured, _Jaime would not abandon me. He wouldn't. Not for a pretty cunt or a lordship, or children for that matter._

The flap at the foot of the door swung open, a roll of bread and a mug of water were pushed inward then quickly snapped shut. Did the guards of the Vale think he was small enough to squeeze through? They flattered him, truly.

He lulled over Lysa's words: You will leave through one door or the other. A sharp gust of wind struck his cell with precise timing. The brown bread was torn into, flicking pieces over the steep cliff. _Food for the birds for they shall not feast on me today. _Tyrion sipped his water, then splashed it across the stone grounds, using the metal cup to bang over and over against the iron doors, shouting, "MORD!" with intent to get him to enter.

Another flurry of bangs against the door. "Turnkey! Mord!"

The clanking of the slow man had come, and Tyrion showed his gratitude once the door was flung open. Mord barrelled in, swinging his baton and driving Tyrion into the sharpest corner, screaming in his face, "Dwarf man still making noise!"

"Gold!" he shouted, hoping the premise would cease his beating. "I can promise you gold-"

"No gold!" Mord snapped back and hit.

Tyrion was astonished by the man's lack of sense. "Well, of course, I don't have it here!"

"No gold!"

The door was wide open...Tyrion glanced at their footing. _One...calculated shove..._ he thought, turning his heel outward, towards the inside of the cell. Mord continued to beat and swing, shouting nonsense without realizing Tyrion had shrunk a good foot away. And with that, Tyrion simply just his hand outward. IT was meant to throw the half-wit off balance, to startle him, to put the fear of the Gods in him.

Mord gave way, with a final shove and Tyrion scrambling to the furthest corner from the edge. He could hear Mord's screaming, soon drowned by the rush of Alyssa's Tears. On this account, it was one death he had been responsible for. It was a mistake that only added to Tyrion's charges...and he hoped Jaime would ride for the Eyrie soon.

_If not..._ he thought, the clouds settled just beneath the castle, hovering over the landscape and what awaited him below was not how he wanted to be remembered after he died.

The Lannister who was shoved into the clouds.

* * *

I have a feeling Tyrion is going to be my third favorite POV to write from. Also, I may have accidentally made him a killer but...oops.

Also probably gonna change the summary for the third and final time since I'm so damn picky and I lowkey don't like it. :) love that.

So, as I become freer, I have an announcement! To thank you all for your patience, I have three additional chapters lined up to be posted over the next few weeks. I'm trying to wrap up Season 1/Book 1 quickly because I'm dragging it out to avoid writing the peril of Ned Stark but what comes in between will be worth the read so I hope I haven't bored you all yet!

And to close this chapter, I end it with another big thank you because I have hit 129 follows! I never thought in a million years 129 PEOPLE would enjoy my story enough, so thank you x10!

See you next time!


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